


Familiar

by starbird1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2020-09-28 00:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20416916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbird1/pseuds/starbird1
Summary: Sandor was used to Sansa. They'd grown up together, after all. Or, she'd grown up with him. So why, suddenly, was his head full of her? Somehow, she'd caught him unawares - and he was most certainly not used to that.





	1. Chapter 1

Sandor eyed Sansa across the great hall. She was flushed with anticipation, which only made her more appealing. She was talking and laughing with her friends. Sandor might as well have been scaling the far side of the Wall, for all the notice she took of him. He'd done many, many things to change that lately but, to his frustration, nothing worked. Sandor himself wasn't certain why he was making such an obvious blunder, but he felt compelled to do it just the same. She effected the tide within him, pulling him toward her, and then pushing him away simply by her very nature. Tonight, they were being "treated" to a singer. Sandor would have gladly foregone the dubious pleasure but he knew Sansa would be there and so he'd put on a fresh tunic and breeches and had shown up. He sat far enough to the side to not have to pay attention to the singer but close enough to the front to be able to see Sansa. As the singer and his accompanying musicians came out to enthusiastic applause, Sandor took a sip from his flagon and let his mind wander. It didn't wander far - it went where it always did - to Sansa. But why? They'd grown up together, after all. Or, she'd grown up with him. So why, suddenly, was his head full of her? Why was he hopelessly and pointlessly attracted to a girl he'd known for all the years of his life that had mattered? 

****

The upbeat opening notes were at odds with Sandor’s bloody thoughts. The day Gregor had murdered their father, Sandor had fled his home and made his way to Casterly Rock where he served under Tywin Lannister during Robert's Rebellion. He'd been consumed with loathing for his brother but wasn't fool enough to think he was a match for him - yet. Sandor savored his first taste of combat. Every opponent was Gregor and he fought with a ferociousness that drew the attention first of the other men and then of his new king. 

Robert had clapped a hand on his shoulder and laughed from his belly. "That'll do, boy. You can only kill them once," he'd said.

Lord Stark had been there, too, a look of distaste on his face. 

Sandor liked Robert. He'd fought a war and won it, and Sandor wanted his favor. As the campaign came to a close, Sandor hovered more and more around the royal tents. He wanted to offer his services to Robert but couldn't risk offending Lord Tywin. He had yet to figure out how to broach the subject, assuming the king would even see him, so he resorted to listening in on whatever he could hear, wherever he could hear it. One day, he overheard a servant boy saying he was bringing the king more ale. Sandor slinked after him and, grabbing a basket of something or other as a cover, made his way to the rear of the tent. 

Sandor determined the only people in the tent were King Robert and Lord Stark. As they had a dull conversation about supplies, Sandor wondered how they'd ever become friends. Lord Stark fought well enough but lacked utterly Robert's enjoyment of life. War, wine, and women - that was the future Sandor wanted. He could dispatch his brother, become head of House Clegane and lord of its keep, enjoy the favor of both the Lannisters and Baratheons, and bed the stream of willing women who'd make their way to his lands once . . . what? _Hmmm . . . _ Sandor wondered. What would bring the ladies to his bed? It rankled him to know it wouldn't be his looks but surely, as lord of even a small keep . . . would it be enough? He was shaken out of his fantasy by the sound of his own name. He'd been so distracted by thoughts of the future that he'd nearly missed the fact that his future was currently under discussion.

"The boy fights like a demon," Robert noted. 

Sandor's heart beat faster in his chest. What had he missed?

"That he does," Lord Stark agreed.

"I'd send him back to Casterly Rock, get him trained properly, but there's no sense in giving Lord Tywin an advantage."

_No! _thought Sandor. He needed to be in King Robert's service. If the king became his champion, extracting his revenge on Gregor would be a far easier task. Lord Tywin was a powerful man, but Ser Gregor was one of his bannermen and, so, had his protection, to an extent.

"If the boy lives long enough to become one," Lord Stark replied.

_Piss off_, Sandor thought. "He's Ser Gregor's brother. Some bad blood there, to hear the young one tell it. I've half a mind to keep him myself but Cersei . . ."

"But Cersei what?"

"He's still young enough to need a firm hand. You saw him. Left to himself he'll grow wild."

"Like you."

Robert laughed. "Take him home with you. Train him for me. I may need him one day, if he's anything like his brother."

Sandor's heart sagged. He'd liked Casterly Rock well enough. King's Landing seemed even better, what little he'd seen of it. There was nothing but nothing happening in the north - besides it being balls-freezing cold and boring. And he wasn't like his brother.

"I don't know, Robert. Cat . . ."

"Cat what?"

Lord Stark sighed. And that sigh sealed Sandor's fate.

***

Sandor glanced over at Lord and Lady Stark. They were listening attentively to some wailing in their honor. Lady Catelyn was smiling and nodding her head along with the music. Lord Stark maintained a polite expression. Past them, Sansa had her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, a smile lighting up her face. When someone offered him something harder than wine, Sandor took two long slugs.

***

Sandor hadn’t thought Lord and Lady Stark would be a family for him and they weren't. He'd had more than one sharp word from his lady over the years and he saw, clearly and repeatedly, her preference for her own children over all others. There was no warmth for him from her. Sandor avoided her. Maybe that's why, now, he couldn't recall much of Sansa's childhood. He barely saw her between her mother, her septa, and Septon Chayle. She was still little when he found himself interested in girls and not much older when he first snuck off into the woods with one of the kitchen maids. 

Sandor's first clear memory of Sansa was when she must have been about 8 and he was 16. She'd skipped over to him, presented him with a flower, and wished him a happy name day. Sandor still had no idea how she'd found out when his name day was, but she presented him with a gift each year. Usually a flower, once a leaf, once an unidentifiable drawing, a girly bracelet of twisted embroidery thread. Once she'd given him a lemon cake that she'd clearly coveted herself. When Sandor had split it in half under the pretext of never being able to finish the whole thing on his own, she'd been nearly ecstatic. He'd been amused, then, at how easy it was to please her, a feat he no longer had any idea how to achieve. He wished, now, that he'd kept some of the things she'd given him.

Sandor remembered more of her brothers, having spent time in the yard and even a few lessons with them. They were nice boys. Not like him. They had the right family and the right name and parents who cared about them. It made him sick by turns. Their goodness. Their polite manners. It could be grating. He was jealous, sometimes, of the interest their father took in them and the love their mother showed them, but, being older and lucky to be there at all, he could never show it. There weren't many others his age. It was as though he'd been born during some kind of baby drought. Still, he figured he couldn't complain. He had food, clothes, a warm bed, a good sword, and armor worthy of his skill. He also had a measure of respect and acceptance among the household that he suspected he would not have had elsewhere.

Not that Sandor was friendly with everyone. Robb, Jon, and some of the older boys, yes, but not particularly Theon. He didn't usually bother himself with their children's games but one day Theon's teasing of Sansa had turned tasteless and Sandor had bloodied his nose. Sansa looked distressed over the whole event.

"You tell me if he bothers you again," Sandor had instructed her, his grip firm on her arm. Theon was no Gregor, but Sansa's hurt feelings had brought back for Sandor a rush of memories of his sister. As a child, Sandor had been unable to do much but, now, retribution was well within his power, especially against a skinny adolescent whose main talent seemed to be running his mouth.

Sansa hadn't agreed or disagreed to tell him anything, which Sandor found odd, so he took it upon himself to keep a watch over her.

"Children argue," Farlen said to him when Sandor visited the kennels, as he often did. "You're better off staying out of it."

"He shouldn't tease her." Sandor was playing with one of the puppies from the latest litter.

Farlen shrugged as though the whole matter was inconsequential. "He probably likes her. Lady Sansa is very pretty, after all, and young men are hopeless at expressing themselves."

Sandor snorted. "She's a child."

"She is Lord Stark's child, not yours."

"And Theon is his hostage. He should know his place." The puppy had sunk his teeth into Sandor's forearm and Sandor was tugging his arm back and forth, enjoying the game.

"As should you."

Sandor glared at Farlen. "As should _you_."

Farlen chuckled, as Sandor had known he would. "Theon's just a puppy but you're a hound for true."

"What's a hunt without a hound?" Sandor asked.

"Oh, just a ride through the woods, I suppose," Farlen said. "Still, though, mind yourself, Sandor. Intimidating Theon is beneath you. Especially at your age."

"Protecting young girls isn't," Sandor replied with no little pride.

"Lady Sansa has all the protection she needs. If she chooses to make her father aware of Theon's behavior, Lord Stark will no doubt address it."

"If she really wanted to make Theon suffer, she'd tell her mother."

Farlen gave him a look. "I'm going to presume you aren't so liberal with your speech outside of the kennels. You have a way with animals so I'll forego thinking you're stupid for now." He eyed Sandor's tug-of-war with the puppy. "You're going to spoil that dog and make him impossible to train if you keep that up. Give him here."

Sandor scooped up the puppy and was rewarded with a slurp on his cheek. He handed the dog off to Farlen.

To an extent, he took Farlen's advice, but he shadowed Sansa often enough that it became known among the younger set that anyone teasing Lady Sansa would be dealing with the older, bigger Sandor Clegane. This created even more of a distance between him and them, which generally suited him just fine. It gave him a purpose . . . one he never really had to act on besides being present, but a noble purpose nonetheless.

***

"You don't have to follow me all the time," Sansa said to him one day.

"I don't want Theon to upset you."

Sansa drew her eyebrows together. "Why? I mean, besides the fact that he's supposed to be polite."

Sandor had never had to articulate it before. He bristled. "It’s wrong." A bully imposing his cruel will on others would always incense him. It struck him he was doing the same thing to Theon, but Sandor let the thought drop. Theon had brought it on himself and that was all the justification needed.

Sansa looked more confused than before. "Shouldn't my feelings guide the matter?"

Sandor gave her a look. Even as a girl, she had a stranglehold on propriety. "You want him speaking filth to you?" 

It was Sansa's turn to give him a look. "No, but I don't want you to be mean, either. You're nice. I like it when you're nice." She laid a hand on his arm and smiled encouragingly at him.

Sandor had nothing to say to that. She was missing the point and he'd continue to defend her even if she didn't see a need for it.

***

A couple years later, Sansa returned the favor. During one of the Cerwyns' visits, Sandor overheard Cley ask Sansa, "What happened to his face?"

Sandor froze in the hallway. He hadn't told anyone the cause of his scars. He assumed Lord Stark had heard and possibly believed the tale put about by Sandor’s father about burning bedclothes. It wasn't a topic Sandor chose to discuss.

"Sandor has always had them," Sansa said with a surprising amount of authority.

"No one is born like that."

"He could have been."

"You don't know that." "I know it's rude to gossip."

Sandor smirked.

"It's not gossip. I'm just asking a question."

"And I answered your question. Sandor has always looked like that."

Sandor could tell the Cerwyn boy wasn't buying it but wasn't going to argue with Sansa any further.

"He's not your father's ward, right?"

"No . . . but he was raised here. He's a part of our household, just like Jory or Alyn or -"

"Is he a man-at-arms?"

"Yes, you could say that."

Sandor let them walk off. He didn't care what the Cerwyn kid thought of him or his position at Winterfell, but he was amused as all seven hells that Sansa had set him straight.

***

Sandor took another furtive look at Sansa. He’d never known another girl like her, and he felt certain he was one of the few who knew her delicate manners concealed a steel core.

She was clapping. He hadn’t realized the song had ended but any indication the night was moving along was a good one. He was growing impatient, both with the singing and with the lack of progress with Sansa.

When the musicians started in on another ballad, he all but groaned. Sandor drained his flagon and took two more from a serving girl when she passed by. It was like waiting for a tourney to begin. He was prickling for action.

***

Sandor grew bigger and stronger and packed on all the muscle his imposing frame could carry. It was a thrill when Lord Stark started to allow him to compete in local tourneys. He pounded more than a few opponents into the dust. Some credited only his size but the more discerning swordsmen recognized his skill as well and a few even told him so. He saved up his prize money and went to market after market until he bought the meanest horse he could find. Lord Stark had not been pleased with his selection but his scowl didn't translate into a refusal so Sandor had ridden back to Winterfell on the biggest, blackest courser in the north. He'd named his horse Stranger, which earned him another scowl from Lady Stark, but he didn't care. Even Hullen, the master of horse, had backed away. Sandor was proud of his horse and coddled him in secret whenever he could. The only time he'd questioned his choice was when Sansa had come to see him. Stranger, not Sandor. (_Of course_, he thought at the memory.) She'd reached up to pet Stranger's nose and Sandor had recognized the bite that was about to happen and grabbed her arm just in time. She'd shrieked and he'd feared for a moment that he'd broken a bone but then she apologized to him while rubbing at her wrist. 

"I didn't mean to scare him," she'd said, looking at him with contrite blue eyes. 

He'd taken her hand in his and squeezed his way from her wrist to her elbow. "Anything hurt?" 

She was about 13 or 14 years old then.

"No," she said, looking at him quizzically, her cheeks flushed.

"If you visit him more often, he'll grow used to you." 

Sansa looked dubious. "Perhaps I will," she'd said. 

But she hadn't. Lady Sansa didn't care for horsemanship.

***

When she was 15, the king had come to Winterfell with his entire family. To Sandor's surprise, Robert remembered him. They'd drunk together. A lot of them had but Sandor had not thought to be included. It seemed King Robert wasn't choosy in his company so long as the ale was flowing. He'd even pulled Sandor aside and asked him, on behalf of the queen, if he'd consider coming to King's Landing and serving as sworn shield to the young prince Joffrey. He'd found Joffrey repulsive and declined, claiming loyalty to the Starks. Looking back now, Sandor was mildly amused at the thought that Sansa would have envied him, spending all of his time around the little blond prince. Lord Stark had reluctantly agreed to be King Robert's Hand but had refused an offer of a match between Joffrey and Sansa, to his daughter's great distress.

"It's not fair!" she'd complained to Jeyne, unaware that Sandor was behind them. 

"You're better off," he'd replied.

Sansa and Jeyne both whipped around, Sansa looking hurt, Jeyne looking irritated.

"How can you say that?" Jeyne challenged. "Sansa would be queen one day!"

"She'd be miserable _every _day. Believe that."

"Sandor, you just don't like him because of that misunderstanding in the yard."

Sandor snorted. "That was no misunderstanding, little bird. You heard how he mocked your brothers and challenged Ser Rodrick. He's an entitled little pain in the arse. And he's not good enough for you."

Sansa's mouth fell open. Jeyne looked openly hostile and said, "You don't know him."

"And you do?"

"I know you and you just like - "And what do you say, Lady Sansa?" Sandor asked, cutting off her friend. 

"I think I'd make a good queen. I would try -"

"Aye, you'd make a good queen, and Joffrey would make a terrible king."

"He's too handsome to be terrible," Sansa said dreamily, staring off into the distance, as Jeyne nodded in vigorous assent.

Sandor couldn't stop laughing. Hard. Directly at the two of them. "Too handsome to be terrible?" he choked out.

They walked off and Sandor shook his head at how deliberately blind young girls could be. ***

Sansa had been hoping to come on the journey as well, even if just to visit the capital for a short time, but was refused.

"I don't like that Queen Cersei," he'd overheard her mother saying to her. For once, Sandor agreed with her.

When the morning of departure had finally come, Arya had skipped off with barely a look back once she'd said goodbye to her father and a few others but Sansa lingered as though, if she could just look sad enough, her father might relent and change his mind. 

Sandor himself was excited to go. He wanted to be around real knights and try his skills among the best. If he somehow got the chance to obliterate his brother, all the better. But he felt for Sansa. Being in the castle all the time was boring and, obnoxious as Joffrey was, Sandor even felt a measure, a very small measure, of sympathy for her that she'd been parted from him. It's not like she could just disappear with a stable boy like he'd done with the kitchen maid at her age.

He walked over to her and raised her chin with his fingers. Sansa attempted to smile at him, but her eyes were threatening to spill over at any moment.

"What would you like from the capital? I'll bring you something."

Sansa seemed surprised. "Oh, no. It would be a bother -"

"If it was a bother, I wouldn't ask. Name it."

"I - I don't know. I don't know what's there."

"It's all there. Anything you want."

Her mind seemed to have gone blank.

"Don't say 'Joffrey.'"

Sansa gave a sad little smile at that. 

As he looked at her, he suddenly realized she was taller. Not as tall as he was, of course, that would be monstrous, but as tall as some of the other women. And they were talking about someone who had been proposed as a match for her. The absurdity of it astounded him. He was several years older than her and he wasn't yet married himself, not that there was a line, but she was . . . well, she wasn't a child anymore. Somehow, she'd grown up and he'd failed to notice.

"A fancy dress, then. The kind your mother would disapprove of."

"You'd get us both in trouble."

Sandor chuckled. "She never liked me anyway.”

Sansa threw herself at him then and started crying in earnest. For a moment he could only stand there, stunned, before awkwardly patting her back and saying, "Little bird," in an urgent undertone. She needed to get herself together before this scene got any worse. When she didn't respond, he said, "Now you're going to get me in trouble for true. Everyone is going to think I made you cry."

Sansa stepped away and laughed a little while she wiped the tears from her eyes. "No one who knows you would think that.” She squeezed his hand and looked up at him. “I'll miss you, Sandor."

Sandor squeezed her hand in return and then, on impulse, kissed the back of it. She giggled, and Sandor’s affection for her warmed him up inside.

***

The memory did little to warm him now. A sense of desperation clawed at him. Everything had been easy between them before he’d gone to King’s Landing. He’d made a mess of things when he’d come back. One way or another, he had rid himself of the anguish of not having her. He was sure it wasn’t just the wine talking when he thought that, the sooner he acted, the better. It might as well be tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

The singer took a sip of wine and asked if anyone had any requests. Jeyne’s hand shot into the air. Sansa made a more elegant indication and the singer, knowing who she was, naturally invited her to select his next song. It was all Sandor could do not to choke. The silver-tongued balladeer oozed over to where Sansa was sitting, made a big show of escorting her to the area that was serving as a stage, and seated her where he could best defile her with his smarmy serenade.

Sansa glowed. It felt like all the world was in love with her. Sandor saw that she was wearing a new dress. She hadn't had a white dress before (he could practically hear Lady Catelyn insisting white was an impractical color for a young girl) and she looked beautiful and pure and perfect in it. For a moment, he was stunned. Then his mind lurched into motion again. He would say something about her dress! Surely, she would appreciate that he noticed and, if the mood was right, he might even comment on how it looked on her and see if she responded to the flirtatious undercurrent. Before he got too taken with his idea, there was an insufferable flourish, and the musicians struck up “Lady Sansa’s favorite song!”

“For fuck’s sake,” Sandor muttered as he rolled his eyes. She’d never said it was her favorite.

***

He hadn’t forgotten his promise to bring Sansa something from King’s Landing, per se, but Sandor was as distracted as any other young man in a big city would be. He'd been there before, but briefly, and that had been during a time of conflict. Now, he had time to see everything the capital had to offer. The Street of Steel alone occupied him for several days as he wandered in and out of the shops whenever he was off-duty. Sandor bought himself a fancy knife and various pieces of armor. He'd quietly ducked into another shop and saw a boy polishing a helm that looked like the head of a bull. It caught his attention like nothing else for sale had. He watched the boy for a long moment.

"Did you make that?" Sandor asked.

The apprentice, for he was clearly not the master smith, whipped around and shoved the helm behind his back. He leveled a hostile look at Sandor. "Are you picking up an order?"

"I asked you if you made that helm. The one you're holding behind your back. Let's see it." Sandor walked toward him. He knew his size intimidated people and he let it. The boy's strong arms reflected his trade, but Sandor doubted he used the swords and such that he made all that often and, as a result, was absolutely no threat.

The smith brought out the helm, sulking like it might be taken from him. "Yes, I made it. For _me_."

Sandor gestured for him to hand it over. The work was fine. The helm radiated strength. Sandor liked it, though he had no need to radiate strength. He had something more like terror in mind.

"Could you make one that looks like a dog?"

The boy slowly tilted his head side to side as if sifting the idea through his brain. He grabbed a bit of parchment and sketched a helm. It looked like a hunting dog, alert, ready.

"Make it snarl."

A few more adjustments and they'd agreed on a design. Sandor could see the boy was eager to make the helm and lowballed him on the price. The boy stammered that he'd have to get his master, Tobho Mott, to agree to that but Sandor simply leaned across the counter and said, "You only have to if he knows about it. The price we agreed on more than covers the materials. I'll give you an extra silver stag if you give my helm the same attention you gave yours."

That was clearly to the boy's liking and he agreed. After a pause, he asked, "Why a dog?" as though a bull made much more sense.

"To represent my house," Sandor answered in a surly tone. He didn't want to explain himself to this nosey apprentice, oblivious to the fact that he'd been nosey first.

"Which house is that?"

"House Clegane."

The smith's blue eyes widened. "Your Ser Gregor's brother."

"Aye, so make it quickly." What his relationship with his brother had to do with speed, Sandor didn't know, but it seemed to spur the smith on, and he had his helm within a few weeks. He paid for it without comment but hurried back to the Tower of the Hand and found a mirror and spent most of the evening transforming himself into a metal-headed hound. He practiced putting it on with one hand while keeping his hair out of his eyes and taking it off with a menacing flourish. 

He liked his helm so much, he found a tailor and asked if the man could make him a tunic with a dog's head on the front. He wanted word to get around that, though he might be in town as a Stark man, his brother was not the only Clegane in Westeros. The tailor had made the dog's head out of leather and the effect was lamer than a three-legged horse. Sandor was displeased and the man knew it. He kicked himself for not asking for three dogs like those on his family sigil. Maybe then the damn tunic would have been worth wearing. As he eyed the garment with contempt, Sandor thought, _Sansa would have made this look good._ She was, after all, the best seamstress he knew. An idea struck him. He would get her sewing supplies. The good kind. Stuff not available in the north, if he could figure out what that was. She liked to sew, and those kinds of things would fit easily in his bag. He was relieved he remembered to get her something, not that she would have said anything if he didn't, but he had offered, and he wanted to keep his word.

"Where do the queen's seamstresses get their supplies?"

The tailor blinked at him for a second, his mouth hanging open. "If you're dissatisfied, ser, I'd be more than happy to make alterations. At no charge, of course."

"I'm no ser."

The man blanched, his eye falling on the direwolf pin at Sandor's throat. "Of course not. You're northern. I apologize."

As Sandor opened his mouth to refute that point, the tailor stuttered that he'd fetch his wife, as she might know.

The woman wasn't certain which exact shop Queen Cersei's seamstresses frequented but knew where the most expensive ones were and gave Sandor directions. 

"Though we'd be happy to provide you what you need," she offered, not intimidated like her husband.

"What I need is a gift for my sister." Close enough. It wasn't their business.

"Oh, there's a Clegane sister, as well?" asked the woman, surprised.

Sandor felt his face fall into what he knew was a very dark look. He hadn't been recognized in the market before and it caught him off guard. It also irritated him because it was as though his real sister had never existed. He slapped some coins down on the work bench. "For your information, lady, and not the damn tunic." He stalked out of the shop in a huff. The tunic was good for nothing except wearing to bed. When he was alone.

***

When he wasn't in the market, Sandor enjoyed frequenting the taverns, winesinks, and gaming halls. He didn't enjoy the Imp's company, but the man knew where the action was, and Sandor went whenever a group of them were going out. The best part of King's Landing, though, was the training yard. Finally, he had some competition. Ser Jaime Lannister himself eventually challenged Sandor. Sandor lost but it was a close thing. It was a thrill to try himself against the best knights in the seven kingdoms. Slicked with sweat, his tunic stuck to his torso, his hair plastered to his temples and neck, his muscles taut and sore and working with violent efficiency, Sandor was almost what he'd wanted to be when he was a little boy.

Except he was hideously scarred and never allowed to forget it. The worst part of King's Landing was the people. His face had drawn some notice when he'd first arrived at Winterfell, but the northerners had followed Lord Stark's lead and concerned themselves with Sandor’s work ethic and trustworthiness rather than the fact that he was missing an ear and had a partially visible jawbone. Sandor assumed that they assumed he'd been injured during Robert's Rebellion. Whatever they thought, if they thought he would heal, they were wrong. Sandor never forgot his scars, but he didn't dwell on them. In King's Landing, however, the polite people grimaced and turned away. The rest stared and commented amongst themselves. A few (usually drunken) men dared ask what happened. It fueled his rage toward his brother. Fleeing his family's home as a boy was hard enough; having his brother's cruel dominance all over his face was a constant burden. Worse, people seemed to think the two Cleganes were cut from the same cloth. People weren't afraid of Sandor because of his skill with a sword; they were afraid of him because his brother was an erratic murderer and rapist and they assumed Sandor was a similar threat. This appalled him at first; how could people think such awful things without a shred of evidence in support? Shouldn't his scars have marked him as a victim, or at least one who'd suffered something awful? Still, Sandor said nothing. What was there to gain by it? Pity? Pity wasn't going to right the wrongs he and his sister had suffered. The reaction to his face stirred up Sandor's memories, and the fear, shame, and betrayal ate at him like acid. It wasn't right and, even with his size and strength, he couldn't combat it. Instead, he drank and fought and, when he could endure the worried looks, fucked in an effort to bury the anger deep down inside himself but it continued to seep and spew out.

The small folk and their alleged betters were one thing; the knights themselves were a different sort of disappointment. Where was the honor? The purpose? The decency? Most of the knights were no better than common louts with some extra coin in their pockets. Sandor was disgusted with them. Ser Barristan Selmy was all right but how did men like Meryn Trant become part of the Kingsguard? Contact with them embittered Sandor further. He didn't spend much time coddling memories of his younger self, but he thought himself a fool for ever aspiring to be a knight. There was nothing to aspire to. If you had even half control of your sword, you were good enough.

And then there was the court, which was the most toxic atmosphere Sandor had ever encountered. If he'd thought the battlefield was sickening, it was nothing to the lies and double-dealing that took place seemingly every second within the Red Keep. It was a good thing Sandor was used to keeping to the background. Otherwise, his eyes might have bulged out in incredulity at the horse shit that was allowed to pass for the business of the realm. Sandor saw immediately that Robert was an indifferent king and Lord Stark was out of his depth. Had he been asked his opinion, he would have told his lord to save them all some pain and just return home. But Eddard Stark was nothing if not a man of his word and so his efforts ground on and on and on.

The appeal of everything he liked about the capital wore off fast. Sandor was angrier and more disillusioned and frustrated than he'd been since his childhood. And there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't leave, so he drank and, when he wasn't drinking, he was short tempered. _Let them be intimidated. Let them know what fear is_, he thought. They already thought him a monster. It wasn't his job to prove them wrong. And then Gregor came to King's Landing. A tourney was held in Lord Stark's honor and Sandor was hoping to meet his brother in the lists so he could gauge what it would take to defeat him. Instead, Sandor found himself rushing to defend Loras Tyrell after the boy was stupid enough to try to cheat Gregor out of a victory by riding a mare in heat. Sandor's heart was fairly vibrating when his brother attacked him. Gregor was huge. He fought with a ferocity Sandor couldn't quite match. He thought about saying their sister's name to see Gregor's reaction, but this wasn't that fight. When he killed Gregor for that offense, Sandor wanted his brother to know why.

So Sandor stayed silent and parried blow after blow. It was almost as though Gregor wasn't fighting _him_ but was in a true blind rage. The attack wasn't personal, it was proprietary. Sandor was simply there. The Tyrell idiot had displeased Gregor and the price for displeasing Gregor was usually death. Sandor's anger at Gregor had always been personal but, he eventually realized, Gregor's attacks on him and others were not. Gregor asserted himself out of self-interest. He simply didn’t recognize anyone else as having a right to their own wants and feelings if they ran contrary to Gregor’s.

Over time, Sandor realized that his primary grievance was with his father. Gregor was damaged but their father should still not have covered up for him. That betrayal was what really stung. It was one thing to be hurt, it was another to have that pain dismissed. _What good did it do him?_ Sandor thought. Gregor killed him just the same. Sandor came to know that he could kill Gregor, he could wound him, maim him, curse him, and kill him, but he could never make Gregor feel remorse. He could never make Gregor feel sorry for what he had done, for the damage he'd caused, for the pain he'd inflicted. He could never make him care. And that's what mattered to Sandor – to have the injustice of his sister's death and the pain he had caused Sandor acknowledged and rectified. And it fueled his anger even more. As far as Sandor was concerned, Gregor owed him a debt of pain and Sandor wanted to make him to pay it – physically if not emotionally.

Not that Sandor pondered this while his brother's sword cut a path toward him again and again. Gregor had taken three good swipes at Sandor's head but was prevented from striking a killing blow because the king commanded that they stop. Sandor had. Gregor barely reined himself in and slaughtered his horse instead. Possibly Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister were the only men alive who could insist that Gregor control himself, and probably only then because they let him act as he pleased in every other circumstance.

And this was the way of the realm. Everyone knew the sort of man Gregor Clegane was and yet he was a knight. No one had any idea the sort of man Sandor Clegane was and yet he was regarded with fear and suspicion. It disgusted him. Everything disgusted him. Sandor drew more into himself and only kept company with the other Stark retainers. He drank heavily and nursed his bitter thoughts while Lord Eddard wasted his time trying to bring honor to the debauched. *** Finally, after two years of blundering, Sandor and the others all but had to drag Lord Stark out of there and free him from the machinations of Lord Baelish. Those who'd survived pounded their way back to Winterfell and Sandor took in the keep's granite walls with a profound sense of relief. He saw Stranger attended to and lugged his bags to his room. The household staff was in an uproar and he knew hot water would be a long time coming so he grabbed a change of clothes and headed for one of the hot springs in the woods. He stripped down without preamble and waded into the warm water. After washing himself, Sandor just laid his head back on his clothes and let the warmth seep into his bones. Except he wasn't relaxed. Before he was even fully aware of it, he was crying. The tension and disappointment of the recent years burst out of him and his shoulders shook as he sobbed silently. Spent, he dragged himself back to the castle and fell into bed without even a sip of wine.

***

That night had been the last peaceful one Sandor had known. He drained his flagon and wondered how much longer this gods-awful performance could go on. At least Sansa was away from that oily singer and back in her seat. And at least he had something of a plan. He’d say something about her dress. Maybe, “That’s a nice dress,” or, “I noticed you’re wearing a new dress tonight.” His mind was starting to feel sluggish from the wine, but he felt reasonably sure that Sansa wouldn’t object to a comment on what she was wearing. Of course, given how things had gone between them lately, that was anyone’s guess.


	3. Chapter 3

Sandor let his mind drift back to the moment that had set his world off-kilter.

***

The day after they had returned to Winterfell, Sandor had woken up mid-morning. He’d made his way bleary-eyed to the main hall, wanting only to silence his growling stomach before collapsing back into his bed. His progress was stopped mid-stride when he saw a woman silhouetted against the window at the end of the hall. She was tall with a slender waist and, Sandor swallowed hungrily, ample breasts. Her hair was pinned up, showing off a graceful neck, and her profile was feminine and delicate. She was talking to someone, but he couldn't have said who. _This_ was a proper lady. He could tell by the elegant way she moved. Sandor's arousal was immediate and intense. Fucking a woman like that would go a long, long way to making him forget about the capital. His eyes ranged over her curves and his hands shook, so badly did they want to dip into the bodice of her gown. His cock twitched, eager to plunge inside the tight, warm depths of this woman’s delectable body.

Just as Sandor's tired mind was starting to parse who she could be given the noblemen currently at Winterfell, she turned toward him. Sandor snapped his gaze to the floor and resumed making his way to the hall entrance.

"Sandor!" a familiar voice cried.

Sandor looked up, wondering where Sansa had come from, and was astounded to see the proper lady walking toward him _was_ Sansa. He was overcome with guilt and confusion. What had he been thinking? Pretty as she was, he'd never felt a pull toward her. Not in this way. She'd always been a child. Now she was most definitely a woman. A desirable women. He hoped she didn't see the want on his face, knowing full well it shouldn't be there at all. He rubbed at his eyes and blinked. "Lady Sansa," he said in a forced monotone.

"I'm so glad you're home! I didn't see you yesterday!" she enthused as she welcomed him with a hug. Sandor put his hands on her waist to stop them from trembling while she threw her arms around his neck. Her chest pressed against him and his lungs constricted. He held still as she kissed his cheek and said some words about praying for his safety. It took all his resolve not to turn his head and catch her lips with his. He could always pretend it was an accident, but he wouldn't subject her to something so cheap. She was a lady, after all, and there was no reason for her to want such a thing from him.

"The day we received word you were returning, it stormed and stormed. We were all hopeful the weather was fairer to the south."

"Aye," Sandor replied distractedly. He was trying not to eye the plump curve of her breasts. _Where _had this body come from and, gods be good, why was it affecting him so? He knew with absolute certainty that Sansa would not appreciate the direction of his thoughts and, for his part, he felt mortified by them. 

"Father told us of the terrible things that happened. Jory -" she frowned in sadness.

Jory's killing had happened weeks ago. He'd been a good man and Sandor was sorry for his death, but the shock was past for him and he was reeling from Sansa's effect on his mind and body. He wanted to get away from her as soon as he could.

"Aye. Terrible. Are there still eggs?"

Sansa opened her mouth but then seemed to switch tacks. "If there aren't, I'll have them made for you."

"Don't trouble yourself. I'll eat whatever's at hand."

"It's no trouble."

Fortunately, there were eggs to be had and Sansa left him to his meal. He kept his head down and shoveled in eggs and bacon and bread and small ale. He was reaching for more ale when he felt a light punch on his arm. He turned to find Arya standing there. 

"You're back," she observed.

"You've always been smart," he said through a full mouth.

Arya laughed and plucked a slice of bacon from his dish. "Tell me what happened," she requested over her chewing. "Father wouldn't say much."

"Another time."

Arya smirked. "How about now?"

To Sandor's relief, she was as annoying as ever. And completely unappealing. He gave her a brief rundown of everything that happened that he thought she had a right to know and hoped she'd tell Sansa so he wouldn't have to talk to her himself. He knew Sansa had only let him go because he was hungry and keeping him would have been discourteous. But he also knew she would seek him out to find out what had happened in King's Landing. She'd always done that whenever something happened, and Sandor had always done his best to relay things to her in a way that was honest yet reassuring.

Except, concerned or not, he didn't want to talk to her. He wanted to avoid her. The last thing he needed was his treasonous body reacting to his lord's daughter in ways likely to generate an introduction between Ice and the back of his neck. Her sudden maturity was a surprise but, Sandor reasoned with himself, that's all it was. A lot had happened recently, most of it bad, so an attractive woman was, of course, going to make him take notice. Still, it was Sansa, so avoiding her seemed the best course of action. 

He started immediately. Hiding from a girl was pathetic but that didn't stop Sandor from walking more slowly through the hallways, listening for the sound of her voice so he could head off in another direction if she was near. He avoided the parts of the castle where she was most likely to be. He took Stranger out for long, pointless rides. He overstayed his welcome with Farlen in the kennels. He took meals in his room until Ser Rodrik insisted the time for mourning was over, which gave Sandor the double shock of realizing not only that people were paying attention to his actions but also that they were attributing them to sappy sentimentalism. 

He still avoided Sansa in the halls, Ser Rodrik be damned, but began eating in the great hall again. This was difficult. He couldn't stop looking at Sansa. At first, he looked at her just to gauge his own reaction, but then he couldn't look away. She'd always been pretty but now she was captivating. He studied her, squinting as though trying to remember how she'd looked two years prior and trying to square the girl he thought she'd been then with the woman she was now. Her faced looked a little fuller, though her cheekbones were still prominent. Her eyes were bright and sparkly. Her hair was still the same rich auburn color it had always been. She smiled pretty much constantly. No, she didn't look materially different from the neck up so that left her body. Sandor ground the food in his mouth. She had no more control over that than he had over his scars, and he felt a different kind of guilt pervade his mind. Sansa was a nice girl. Sandor knew well the filthy things men sometimes said about women when in all-male company – the kinds of things that would have made Sandor draw his sword had someone said them about Sansa. Yet here he was thinking along those same lines, discounting everything that made Sansa Sansa and considering only the physical enjoyment the union of a pretty face and a succulent body could provide him. He clenched his jaw. His usual protectiveness made him nothing but a wolf in sheep’s clothing. _No good can come of this_, he thought.

***

"What's Lady Sansa done to you, eh?" a man-at-arms asked him one evening when Sandor had taken his thousandth furtive glace at her.

Sandor gave the man a savage look. His heart started trying to pound its way through his ribcage. "What -"

The man laughed. "You're looking at her like she's done you a wrong. Relax, Clegane. No need to scare the poor girl!"

Sandor fought the urge to punch him. "I wasn't looking at her. I was trying to remember something."

The man laughed again and clapped Sandor on the shoulder as he got up. "Try to remember something that doesn't make you look like you want to kill someone, would you?"

_Go bugger yourself with a hot poker,_ Sandor thought, though he let the comment go. He was more concerned with the fact that someone had caught him looking at Sansa. When had everyone gotten so damn alert?

His campaign of avoidance wasn't working. Sansa was everywhere. Despite the circumstances of their return, she persisted in being cheerful and tried to lift everyone's mood with her own. If others were concerned about the political storm brewing in the capital, Sandor didn't share their interest. The whole of King's Landing could sink into the sea for all he cared. It was festering with rot and Westeros was better off without it. He was content to be in the north, as far as he could get from the capital, save for taking the black, which gave him another idea. 

_I've been without a woman too long_, Sandor thought to himself. At his very next opportunity, he saddled up and rode down to the winter town and tumbled a whore. And then another one. He tried not to think about Sansa as he pumped himself dry but, the harder he tried, the more pervasive thoughts of her became. This troubled him to no end. He'd never been uneasy around her before and this newfound weakness for her gnawed at him. Though Sansa sometimes referred to him as another brother, like Jon, he'd never really thought of her as a sister. He'd always appreciated Sansa's warmth toward him, but he felt more protective of her than related to her. He wasn't a Targaryen (or, if the rumors were true, a Lannister), after all, so at least he could rest easy on that score. Besides, he already had a sister and he guarded her memory closely and privately.

Going to the winter town had been a terrible idea, even apart from the fact that he’d run into Sansa as soon as he'd returned. Of course. He'd felt sated and drowsy and, there she was, looking so young and ripe and guileless. His skin was sticky with dried sweat and he was fairly certain he reeked of sex and wine. Sandor felt filthy and unfit to be in her presence.

"Where have you been all day?" she asked with a smile as she made to walk along with him.

"I went for a ride."

"I've barely seen you since you came home."

"Been working, little bird." Gods, why was his room so far away?

"You're not right now. Maybe we could -"

"I need to get cleaned up before I go on shift. Maybe later."_ Not happening._

Sansa frowned but nodded. "Maybe later."

Sandor booked it to his room, took himself roughly in hand, and satisfied himself again despite feeling agitated and guilty over his lack of control. 

Sex after a lengthy dry spell had only increased his desire for more and the mental images to which he'd treated himself only inflamed his curiosity about how Sansa might be. Could be. Naked. With him. What if she was willing? What might she let him do? What if she liked it and wanted more? What if she wanted him as he much as he wanted her? Could she? Seven hells, he wanted her plenty.

_Enough!_ Sandor tore off his dog's-head helm and threw it at a squire before snatching up a flagon and guzzling it as sweat poured off his body. Exhausting himself in the yard had been his next idea. Every free moment he had, he spent battering some poor fool. Sansa had walked by and that had been enough to make him half hard. She hadn't even turned her head. He'd been simultaneously so focused and so distracted that he hadn't heard Robb say, "Yield." 

"Everything alright, Clegane?" Ser Rodrik asked.

"Why wouldn't it be?" Sandor snapped.

Ser Rodrik hesitated. They'd always gotten along well enough. Ser Rodrik had limited patience with Sandor's temper, but Sandor worked hard and fought fairly, so he had the older man's respect. Quietly, Ser Rodrik suggested, "You’ve been training near constantly lately. Maybe you should take a night off. Get some rest. You'll concentrate better for it."

Sandor nodded vaguely but hope was welling up inside him. Why hadn't he thought of this before? Sansa was damn near impossible to avoid during the day, but she slept at night! Sandor immediately started taking the night shift whenever he could switch with someone when he wasn't assigned to it himself. Finding someone to switch with was easy. No one wanted to be on watch through the long, cold night. Despite the several hours of relative peace this afforded him, the quiet also gave him too much time to think. To wonder. To upbraid himself for thinking and wondering. Besides, his shift was still bookended by Sansa since shift changes were aligned with meal service. So, he would see her, go on shift, torture himself with thoughts of her, and then his shift would end and he would enter the great hall filled with an unmentionable hunger. After a few weeks of hardly seeing the sun, he gave it up. Avoiding something only made you want it more. He had a better plan.

Sandor now felt certain that seeing Sansa all the time would lessen whatever this untoward fascination with her was. He'd grow used to her again and things would be as they were before. He kept his regular schedule but went out of his way to try to be in her company. This was more difficult than he’d thought it would be. When he wanted to avoid her, she was inescapable. Now, her schedule was suddenly full of lessons, music and voice classes, and these sewing circles that seemed to go on forever. Once, he’d lingered in the hall near an embroidery marathon in an attempt to stage a casual run-in. When at last the doors opened, the women filed past giving him suspicious, sidelong looks. A few of the younger women burst into laughter as soon as they’d rounded the corner and Sandor felt himself tense, certain they were laughing at him and, worse, that Sansa heard them, too.

“Lady Sansa,” he’d said, hoping to sound nonchalant.

“Hello, Sandor,” she replied.

“Sewing again?” He groaned internally.

Sansa smiled. “Every day.”

“That must be tiring.”

“No more so than training in the yard, I’d imagine.”

“I’d have to ask Arya to know for sure.”

Sansa laughed.

Then Sandor noticed she was holding a basket. “Can I carry that for you?”

“No, thank you. Lucy will be along in a moment. I’m –”

Just then, Lucy and a young girl appeared.

“Ah,” said Sansa, “thank you both for straightening up. Lucy, would you put this back in my chambers, please?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Sansa handed off her basket to her maid, who nodded to them both and left, and turned back to Sandor. “I was saying, I’m off to meet my mother and the seamstresses.”

Sandor stared at her.

“Dress fitting. More sewing.” She gave him a quick grin. “I’ll see you this evening.”

Sandor was too slow to offer to escort her and just stood there feeling foolish as she walked away.

After she disappeared down the hall, he became aware of the presence of the tiny girl standing to the side. A junior maid, no doubt. She looked up at him, her head cocked to the side, like he was an unimaginable oddity.

He cast her humorless look. “Something on your mind, girl?”

“Are you lost, my lord?”

Sandor muttered an oath and stalked off.

***

Not only was Sansa more beautiful, her confidence made him feel incredibly stupid and ungainly in her presence. He found it hard to have a conversation with her. His comments on the weather seemed like lecherous entrapment when, not moments before, he'd been picturing her astride him, head thrown back as she rode him with abandon. Worse, he felt conspicuous.

"What's with you?" Arya asked him one day.

"Nothing. What do you mean?"

“Since when do you go on walks?”

“Since Lady Sansa asked me to.” That wasn’t quite true. He’d asked if he could join her. And then Jeyne had come, and he’d felt stupendously out of place.

“Uh huh.”

“I’d do the same for you, Lady Arya.” _That should get her gone_, he hoped.

It did. Arya wrinkled her nose at him and skipped away. At 14, she lacked Sansa’s deftness when it came to handling male attention. Plus, she was Arya. Sandor had never met a girl so disinterested in being a lady and the best way to get rid of her was to treat her like one.

Though Arya was easily deflected, Sandor knew he was making a fool of himself. He had to get Sansa alone to at least minimize the gossip fodder he was probably providing half the keep.

As soon as he was able, he planted himself next to her at the midday meal. He leaned over and told her in an undertone, "I did bring you something. From King's Landing. Remember I said I would?"

A smile lit up her face and gods help him if it didn't go straight through him. "You did?"

He smiled back at her. Finally, something was working. "I did." He chose not to give a reason why he hadn't given it to her weeks ago, say, immediately upon his return.

"That was kind of you. Shall we meet in my family's solar after this?"

Sandor nodded and bit whatever he was eating, he had no idea, off the tip of his knife. He went back to his room and dug the bag out of the bottom of his trunk. He'd never even unpacked it. As he brought out the sewing supplies, he felt his one cheek flush with embarrassment. What had he been thinking? How had he not realized that she'd be a woman when he returned? Hells, she was basically a woman when he left. The twinkly beads and ribbons he'd bought looked like something a child would be drawn to. He'd purchased some lace and satin trim, too, and hoped it wasn’t out of style, whatever the style was these days. He could have kicked himself. Why hadn't he looked at what he'd bought before he'd mentioned it to her? Now he had to go to the solar and offer her these bits and pieces and watch her smile politely over his idiotic selections. The fact that the dog's head tunic was also in the bottom of the trunk did not increase his confidence.

When he was admitted to the solar, Sansa was already seated, and she patted the spot next to her and smiled at him. Feeling like a half-wit, he lumbered over and dropped down beside her. Only then did it occur to him that he should have wrapped the gift. As it was, he just had everything in his hands, which he moved toward her like he was cupping water for a dog to drink.

Sansa's eyes sparkled as she _ooohed_ and _ahhhed_ over everything.

_If this is just her chirping empty courtesies, she's damn good at it_, Sandor thought. He relaxed just a little.

"I've never seen beads like this," Sansa exclaimed. "I'll have to save them for something special. And this lace! It's gorgeous!"

"They're from the same shop the queen regent's seamstresses use." Sandor looked away and bit his tongue to keep from swearing. _Braggart. And who wants what Cersei Lannister has anyway?_

Sansa looked up at him, her inviting lips an O of surprise. "You went out of your way . . ."

Sandor shrugged. "You like to sew. Might as well have the best."

Sansa grinned broadly. "Thank you, Sandor. I love it all."

Sandor nodded awkwardly and made to stand but Sansa laid a hand on his forearm and said quietly, "You never did tell me what happened in King's Landing."

"That's old news by now, little bird."

"I'd still like to hear it from you."

He tried to downplay the treachery, but she got it out of him anyway. Somehow, though, Sansa still believed the world was a good and just place. Her faith in a better tomorrow was unshakable. She was pure in a world he'd learned was shit. He'd come home with something of a reputation and still she beamed at him like she could only see him at his best. Not even he knew what that was. He just knew he wanted to be it. For her.

That was the difference between the Stark sisters, Sandor realized. Arya accepted you as you were, whatever you were. Sansa expected more. That expectation made him stand up a little straighter. Try a little harder. Part of him wanted her to be as disgusted with the ways of the world as he was and was frustrated by her naivety, but a greater part of him wanted to shield her from those same ways of the world and let her dream her unspoiled dreams.

***

He should have left Winterfell that very night, when they were both happy. Lusting after her body was one thing. It was still wrong, but he was only a man. But it was more than her body. It was her sweet personality, her flawless manners, her concern for others, her warmth, her integrity, her faith and optimism. If he could fill himself up with her goodness, he’d never know another moment of discontent.

At 17, it was a miracle she wasn't yet betrothed. Of course, her father had been away for the past couple of years and now was wildly unpopular with the king and queen regent, which was all for the better as far as Sandor was concerned. If anything, Sansa's being of age only instilled in him a greater sense of urgency. He had to get to her before someone else did.

Not that he imagined himself worthy of her. He knew he wasn’t. He knew it all too well. But he’d be happy with whatever she’d be willing to give him. He knew he had to try.

***

The damn singer was about to make his ears bleed. Sandor got up to use the privy. He noticed with a frown that his exit went unnoticed.


	4. Chapter 4

Sandor resumed his seat. He nudged the man-at-arms next to him and said in an undertone, “Is this almost over?”

The man gave a pained look and shrugged.

Sandor stifled a groan.

***

Sandor had decided he’d have to take decisive yet discreet action. If Lord Stark or, worse, Lady Stark, got word of his designs on their daughter, he would, at best, be banished and have to slink off to some other house or go across the Narrow Seas and try his luck in foreign lands. He’d never been more interested in staying right where he was.

He had tried avoiding Sansa. He had tried getting over her. The only course of action left to him was to have her and, for that, he needed to get her on board with being with him. But how?

***

Unfortunately, Sandor lacked everything he thought Sansa might find enticing in a man. She didn't often watch the men in the yard so impressing her with his improved use of a war hammer was out. There were no tourneys coming up. Giving her the thrill of an outing on Stranger wasn't going to help since she still hadn’t learned to love a good ride. He wasn't handsome. She didn't seem bothered by his scars, but he knew better than to assume the females of Winterfell were lusting after his looks. He didn't care about music or dancing or art or sewing or books or poetry. She didn't care about wine or cards or dice or fighting or taverns or armor. Sandor frowned. He had nothing.

No, it was worse than that. He had less than nothing because he didn't even have any ideas. He'd already given her a gift, which she seemed to like. He supposed he could get her another but . . . this was the north, not King's Landing. There was nothing in the market here that would be new to her. He could pay someone to write a song for her but he couldn’t risk having her fall for the singer. He also didn't want to involve anyone else in his business lest she decline his advance and he make a fool of himself. He considered, briefly, after consuming a large quantity of ale, consulting Arya but . . . the thought was almost enough to make him shudder. He might as well just ask Lord Stark and the entire bloody household to tell Sansa of his interest by singing it in harmony from the ramparts. No, there were no suitable intermediaries. He would have to woo her himself.

The only thing, at all, that he could come up with that might be to his advantage was his belief that she appreciated his honesty. Maybe if he leveled with her . . .

_"Sansa, now that you’ve flowered . . .”_ No.

_“You look almost a woman . . . face, teats, and you’re taller, too.”_ Seven hells, no.

“_Fucking is better than you might have heard.”_ Sandor shook his head in disgust. He’d known her forever and could not think of a single, reasonable thing to say to her. He could think of no way to frame his interest such that she wouldn’t take it as a lurid suggestion.

Sandor sighed. He was overthinking it. Just like in combat, sometimes it was best to trust your instincts in the moment.

***

As luck would have it, she sat down the table from him during the evening meal just a few days later. He kept his head down while she talked with the others. Fortunately, Cayn and Alyn were going on shift so they ate quickly and excused themselves. Sansa scooted a little closer.

Sandor cleared his throat. “Is that new lace on your dress?”

She looked down and then back up, confused. “No . . .”

He’d thought she might have used some of the lace he’d given her. It looked similar but what did he know? He looked down again. “Oh.”

Sansa took a bite and chewed. After she swallowed, she said, “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “I thought maybe it was the lace . . .” He didn’t want to make her feel bad about not using the gift he’d gotten her.

“Oh! No, I haven’t used it just yet. I will, though.” She gave him a tight smile.

“You don’t have to.”

“No, I will.”

“Only if you want to. It might be ugly. You know lace better than I do.”

Sansa’s eyebrows drew together. “It’s very pretty. I just haven’t had anything to use it for yet.”

“You don’t have to use it at all, if you don’t want to.”

“I want to.”

“Up to you.”

“I meant it when I said I liked the things you gave me.”

Sandor was regretting saying anything more and more with every word. “I believed you.”

“Are you sure? Just because I haven’t used it yet doesn’t mean I don’t like it.”

“I said I believed you, little bird.”

“I don’t always like it when you call me that.”

Sandor began to wish he’d just choke to death on his food already.

“I meant you were pretty like the birds there.”

“You meant I was chirping nonsense.”

“Aye, I meant that, too, but I don’t mean it now. Now it's just what I call you.”

Sansa looked at him, annoyed. He looked back, flummoxed. 

He stumbled on. "Because you're pretty." He hoped those few words would convey all he really felt.

Instead, Sansa maintained her incensed look.

Then, thank the gods, Beth came and sat with them. Sansa gave the girl her full attention and Sandor wished he could vanish.

“Beth, do you think I should replace the lace on this dress?”

They all looked at Sansa’s neckline. Sandor didn’t notice any lace at all.

Beth considered. “No, but you know what would look really pretty with that dress? The broach King Joffrey gave you.”

“The fuck?” Sandor muttered, feeling incensed himself.

“Pardon?” asked Sansa.

Beth seemed not to have heard. “That color would really show off the emeralds.”

“The king gave you a broach?” Sandor spat out, thinking his gift even worse than before. What was some crap satin trim when she was being given jewels from the fucking royal vault or wherever the fuck that fucking little shit had gotten them?

“He wasn’t the king then,” Sansa said evenly.

Sandor looked away with an eye roll and drained his wine. He got up, accidentally banged his knee on the underside of the table, which made all the dishes and silverware clang together and all the people jump, and stomped out of the hall.

***

Sandor couldn’t compete with precious gems from a golden-haired, spoiled sovereign, but he came back to the gift idea again and again. He’d noticed some dragon’s breath growing in the woods and liked the dark red color. It reminded him of the highlights in Sansa’s hair. He thought to bring her some or maybe leave them in her chambers as a surprise. Maybe the simplicity of it would win him some favor.

He gathered up a handful of the flowers and was walking back to Stranger when he heard riders approaching. A moment later Sansa and Cley Cerwyn came into the clearing.

_What is_ he _doing here?_ Sandor thought, not without noticing that Sansa was on horseback a good way from the castle.

“Picking flowers, Clegane?” the Cerwyn brat intoned snidely.

Sandor thrust the incriminating blooms at Stranger and mentally screamed, _EAT!_

Stranger sniffed the flowers, snorted, and turned away.

_Traitor._

“You’re a long way from the yard, Lady Sansa,” Sandor said, ignoring the pretty-boy on his palfrey.

“The Cerwyns have come for a visit,” she said, as though that explained her unchaperoned trot into the middle of nowhere.

“It’s generous of you to show your guest the distant woods. The trees are so different from the ones near the keep.”

Sansa opened her mouth to respond but the group’s attention was drawn to the arrival of more riders. Arya, Bran, Rickon, and a plump, unattractive girl came into the clearing.

“Lady Jonelle, this is Sandor Clegane, one of our most loyal men-at-arms,” Sansa said. “Sandor, surely you remember Lady Jonelle Cerwyn.”

Sandor could have spat. “Lady,” he said, wishing he could throw the flowers aside without anyone noticing and kicking himself for not doing so earlier.

“Are you checking traps?” Bran asked while Arya smirked.

Sandor had always found Bran to have a dreamy quality to his thoughts, like he was preoccupied and only half attending what was happening in front of him. “All empty at the moment, Lord Bran,” he answered while mounting Stranger. He was once again taller than all of them and felt much more at ease atop his heavy courser. It also allowed him to drop his hand to the side and hide the flowers behind Stranger. “And where are you all off to?”

“Riding!” Rickon said.

“It’s such a nice day, Cley suggested we go get some air,” Sansa said.

“Castle Cerwyn is half a day’s ride from here. That's not air enough?”

Cley said, “A race is what I suggested, actually, but the ladies preferred a slower pace.”

“I didn’t,” muttered Arya.

“Won’t you join us?” Sansa asked.

“Thank you, no,” Sandor said. “I have to get back.”

“Before those flowers wilt,” Arya murmured as she nudged her horse past him.

“Another time then,” Cley said.

_Just after never_, Sandor thought.

The group started to move out. Sandor sat still and let them file past. Sansa turned around and looked quizzically at the flowers that felt glued to Sandor's hand. Sandor wished he'd just given them to her. It would have been the confident move. A vanguard tactic rather than a rearguard one. He could catch up with her in an instant but . . . the moment had passed.

***

The Cerwyns returned home. On horseback. With presumably enough air for even Cley’s thirsty lungs. Sandor was glad. He had no reason to suspect Sansa had feelings for the Cerwyn kid but the removal of a potential suitor could only help him. Except he wasn't getting anywhere. He almost wished Arya would say something - either to Sansa privately or in front of both of them - and force his hand. But that was craven and, anyway, the girl had suddenly become circumspect or distracted and didn't say anything at all. Sandor knew that if he wanted to make a declaration, he should just make it already. But when he'd told her he thought she was pretty, she'd only frowned at him. It wasn't much to go on.

***

He was leaning on the rail of the upper walkway that overlooked the yard, occasionally sipping a flagon and trying to look relaxed. Ser Rodrik was running a training exercise with the younger boys and Sandor was watching, both to see who had promise and how Ser Rodrik managed it. The man wasn't doddering but he wasn't getting any younger and Sandor had half a mind to take over his position one day. That seemed as good a plan as any. Or, it had, until he'd developed feelings for the girl whose parents controlled his fate in large measure. His mind ranged over recent events and he was frequently startled back into the present by a command shouted by Ser Rodrik or the racket made by the boys.

He was startled again when he heard a voice quite close to him.

"Did she like them?" Sansa asked quietly.

"Did who like what?" Sandor snapped, irritated with himself for not realizing she was there. "How long have you been standing here?"

"Not long. You didn't notice?"

He gestured toward the yard below. "I was watching them."

"I see."

For a moment they both gazed down. The boys were in groups, attacking and defending as directed by Ser Rodrik.

Sandor was tense from head to toe. They'd not exchanged more than brief greetings in passing since that day in the woods. He'd spent his time brooding. And now she'd snuck up on him again and he was rattled.

"Sandor?"

His mind fell back to the present. "What?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"What question?"

Sansa looked at him like he was being willfully dense. "Did she like them?" she said, articulating each word.

He looked down at her. "Did who like what?" he answered in the same tone.

"The flowers. Whoever you picked them for."

He considered saying Septon Chayle had wanted to study them for medicinal purposes, but he didn't want to lie. The fact that she thought he was picking flowers for another woman was, quite possibly, the worst thing she could think. Why hadn't he just handed her the damn things? "I didn't give them to anyone."

"You picked them."

"I didn't_ give them_ to anyone," he said in a tone he hoped would stop her from questioning him further.

“Oh. I just thought you might be seeing someone.”

"I'm not."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

Sandor glared in the direction of the yard without seeing it. Why did every single encounter have to go wrong?_ Because you're a bloody fool, that's why, thinking you can have Sansa Stark._ His mood darkened even more. If Sansa thought he was seeing other women and didn’t care, then it was clear she didn't and wouldn't have feelings for him. It stung in the most awful, raw, painful way.

"Since when do you care what's happening in the yard?" he asked.

“Since when do you snap at me all the time?”

“I don’t.” He tipped his flagon into his mouth, the corner of which was twitching.

Sansa watched him take a few gulps. “It seems you’re always drinking lately.”

Sandor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Is that so?”

“Am I wrong?”

Sandor hadn’t thought much about it one way or another. All he knew was that wine helped quell the turbulence that was constantly churning within him since he’d been to the capital. “It’s not my place to tell you if you are.”

“So you think I’m wrong.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re not saying much of anything.”

“I’m talking to you right now.”

“You’re arguing with me.”

“Maybe you’re arguing with me.”

“I just thought you might have a reason to be happy.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“You haven’t.”

“Oh, no?”

Sansa eyed him as he took another drink, a movement he hadn’t even consciously made. Her lips were pursed. "I'll leave you to it, then."

Sandor waited until she walked away to mutter an oath of frustration. Another conversation blown.

***

Days and days and days went by. Sandor spent most of them beating himself up. He drank less, but he told himself it wasn’t because Sansa had said anything about it. He got drunk only once so, naturally, that was when he'd encountered her. She'd blatantly been avoiding him and it both gnawed at him and brought him relief. His luck ran out, though, when he staggered out of the hall one night with a few of the junior men at arms. Sansa was passing by and the group stood straighter. "Lady Sansa," they mumbled. Someone in the back belched under his breath. The man to his right swayed and grabbed at the stone wall. Sandor felt he could not have been seen in poorer company. They were good men, and skilled, but he knew instinctively that Sansa would not be impressed. _Why should I care what she thinks? _he thought hollowly. When she met his eye, he raised his flagon in a mock toast and took a swig. She whipped her head around and stalked away, leaving Sandor without an ounce of satisfaction.

***

The next time he saw her, she looked glowingly happy. He couldn’t ask her about it, things were just too awkward, so he asked Arya.

“What’s going on? Why is your sister so happy?”

“Because you’re here.”

Sandor’s heart stopped.

Arya laughed. “You should see the look on your face!”

“You buggering little –”

“You really don’t pay attention, do you?”

Sandor glared at her.

“A singer has come!”

“A singer.”

“Yes.”

“When’s the performance?”

“You’ve been putting on one for quite a while.”

“Mind your tongue, girl.”

“Or else what?”

“Try it and see."

Arya smirked, immune to his threats.

“So when is it?”

“Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Sandor didn’t have to ask if Sansa would be there. The competition sharpened his focus. He’d made such a mess of things lately that he knew he’d have to capitalize while Sansa was in a good mood. He had to say something personal, something that tapped into their shared history, something that some worthless singer couldn't do because they didn't live here, with her, day after day, within the scope of her notice but outside the sphere of her particular concern.

***

The depressing memories of his failed attempts to manage his attraction to Sansa came to an abrupt end when the hall erupted in applause and whistles. Finally! The singing was over! Sandor lumbered to his feet. It was time. His brain felt foggy but he had a plan: compliment her dress. Tell her she looks nice. Maybe offer to escort her to her chambers. No! Ask if she’d like to take a walk. Yes. That could work. Pleased that a plan was finally coming together, he stepped into the aisle and made to move to the front of the room. Except he couldn’t because a cluster of women stopped dead in front of him, intent on chattering en masse. He tried to edge around them but they were an impenetrable bulwark. He turned around and walked down the length of the tables to the far side of the hall and chose another aisle. A few of his fellow men-at-arms stopped him and asked if he wanted to shoot dice with them once the hall cleared out. Sandor hurriedly declined and had to step over several benches to reach the main aisle where two young girls were escorting their elderly grandmother out of the hall. They were moving at a pace unlikely to get the old woman to the door during her remaining lifetime. Sandor shoved a table aside and stepped into the aisle behind them.

His blood pressure increased. He looked around. Sansa was no longer at her table. _Fuck._ Even with his height, it was hard to see through the throngs of people. Had she left already? His head swiveled as he tried to pick her out. If he couldn’t find her, he couldn’t set his plan into motion and, if he couldn’t set his plan into motion, their eternal separation seemed the only possible result. He took a few steps forward and looked around again. Nothing. Failing to see her, he looked for Beth and Jeyne and the other girls. The crowd had seemingly swallowed them up. He was moving toward the table where she’d been sitting when he heard her laugh. She was at the front of the room, talking to the too-smooth-by-half singer and his leering band of third-rate string-pluckers. Sandor was sure if they hadn’t been holding their instruments, they’d be groping every female in sight, starting with Sansa. He started to make his way to the front but then saw Lord and Lady Stark were also part of the conversation. He couldn’t say anything in front of them. He felt frozen. She was right there and yet entirely unapproachable.

The crowd began to ebb toward the doors and Sandor knew it would look odd if he lingered. He had no reputation as a music-lover. He dawdled a few moments more under the pretense of handing a few flagons to one of the serving girls. His chance was passing him by. He’d made up his mind, he had a plan, and now he wasn’t going to be able to execute it. He’d have to suffer some more and who knew how long it would be until another opportunity like this came again. When he could no longer delay his exit, he took another glace at the front of the room and saw Sansa. She was positively aglow with pleasure. His heart fell into the heels of his boots. He’d never made her look like that. He’d suffered through that interminable caterwauling and for what? To prove to himself again that he was a fool? He trudged out the hall, succumbing to his funk, when he heard a few skipping steps and felt a hand take his arm. He spun to spew venom at whoever it was when he brought himself up short.

"Wasn't that _wonderful_?" Sansa asked, beaming at him with a happiness he couldn’t inspire. "That last song especially! Do you think the knight in the song will ever confess his devotion to his lady love?" 

Sandor jerked his arm out of her grip and turned to face her square. "How the fuck should I know?"

Sansa looked at him crossly. He hadn't missed the split second of hurt that had skittered across her face first, though. He knew he'd ruined her mood and that worsened his mood and now the night was a complete disaster. "They're not real," he said, hating the way he sounded. "So it doesn't matter."

Even with her face squinched up in annoyance, she was still the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen.

"That's not . . ." She stopped and took the high road like she always damn did. "Sandor, I know you don’t care for music but . . . when songs are sung so _passionately_ . . .” She sighed and looked up as she pressed her hands to her chest, apparently overcome by the memory of the singer and his libidinous lyrics. “I thought maybe even you would appreciate the sentiment . . .” Her voice trailed off as her questioning eyes fell to him.

A right hook from Hodor would have been less painful. All he'd wanted to tell her was that he liked her dress. That's it. It was his last stand. And he did like her dress. Her young body had a resiliency that made him believe she could endure a brute like him. The only time he felt truly confident was when he was holding a sword. Or when he was on his horse. He felt like the Stranger then, dealing out fate and pain as he saw fit. But Sansa didn't care. She didn't care for horsemanship and she didn't linger in the yard like Arya did and she was surrounded by men who'd give their lives for her and so, big and tall and strong as he was, he remained insignificant, diminished and shamed by her lack of notice.

“Guess not,” he said.

She frowned.

“It’s late. You must be tired. Come on.” She didn’t look tired but Sandor was. He was tired, so very tired, of failing to be acceptable to her.

He offered her his arm but she didn’t take it. They walked down the hall, each in a huff. "Take my arm," he said, wanting her to touch him again.

"No." She glared at him and looked away, matching his strides.

"I'm escorting you." He tried to keep the edge off his voice though frustration was getting the better of him again. _Damn it, just take my arm already before someone notices!_

"No, you aren't. I just happen to be walking this way, too."

"You took my arm before." They turned a corner and were almost to the Starks' wing.

"I was happy about the song! I thought you might have enjoyed_ this_ performance if none of the others, for once! But no. You enjoy nothing but whatever's in your stupid flagon!"

"I enjoy that dress on you."

Sansa stopped and looked at him like he'd exposed himself to her. _"What?" _

He could have banged his head against the granite walls. Why had he wasted the only feeble compliment he'd come up with? "Nothing." 

"You pick a fight with me and then tell me you like my dress? Are you even sober?"

"I'm -"

"You're drunk. Again."

"I’m not." She'd killed whatever buzz he had going.

"You're -"

"You're wrong!" he growled at her.

They stalked on in silence until he heard her sniff. Sandor reached out and grabbed her arm, turning her to face him. "Are you crying?"

Tears had welled up in her eyes. She shook off his hand, snapped her head around, and then took off running down the hall. It was only a few yards to the next hall where her room was. She was around the corner and her door was banging shut before Sandor registered any of it. All he saw were the tears.

He looked up and down the corridor. For once, no one was around. That was good. He didn't need the gods damned servants carrying tales. He thought about going to Sansa's door and apologizing but he didn't know what to say. Everything he said was the wrong thing. He wasn't going to plead like some lovelorn idiot. He wasn't going to try to tease her into laughter and forgiveness like one of her brothers might. He wasn't going to do anything because he wasn't anything - at least to her.

***

Sandor hated to retreat to his room with his tail tucked between his legs but he was out of ideas and this encounter with Sansa had drained the last of his energy. Pursuing her had been a mistake. He'd thought he might be able to . . . he didn't even know what. Entice her? Appeal to her? Attract her enough to overcome all possible obstacles? He sipped at the flagon he'd taken from the hall. He didn't even feel like getting drunk. He sat at his table and felt the weight of his disappointment cloak him in gloom. Maybe he'd take the night shift again for a while. Sandor wasn't very social at the best of times but having to make inane chitchat while nursing his private defeat was just going to be too much. He got up. Might as well make the offer now. Cayn was currently in charge on nights and would probably welcome a break. Sandor knocked back a gulp of wine, crossed the room, and opened the door. Sansa was standing on the other side of it, her fist poised to knock, the hem of her nightgown showing beneath her cloak.


	5. Chapter 5

Sandor looked down at Sansa in confusion. His jaw opened even more when she stepped around him and closed the door quietly behind her.

"I'm glad you're still up. I didn't want to wake you."

Sandor gawked at her, his brain fumbling. "I'm awake."

"We need to talk. I couldn't sleep."

This did not illuminate the situation for him. Sansa Stark did not show up in the bed chambers of men in the late hours of the night dressed in little more than her small clothes. But apparently she did, for here she was. That this was, must, and had to be so against her normal behavior as a proper little lady both appalled Sandor and made his mouth water.

She was looking at him as though expecting some kind of response. Sandor's mind was whirring but not gaining any traction. What had she just said? "It's the middle of the night," he commented, sure that that, at least, was relevant.

"I know. And I know my being here isn't proper, but we need to talk."

Sandor cringed inwardly. Talking was not going to do either of them any favors. Much as he wanted to avoid that, he also knew it would be better to just get it over with. If she wanted to lecture him about his poor treatment of her, better to do it here than somewhere more public.

"What about?"

Sansa looked a little frustrated. "About . . . " She gestured abstractedly with her hands. "About you! I mean, us. We can't seem to get along lately. Doesn't that bother you? Things have been so_ weird_ since you came home!"

_Great_, Sandor thought. _She comes to my room, in her nightgown, in the middle of the night, somehow doesn't get caught on the way, and it's all to tell me I'm weird. _"No, they haven't."

Sansa pulled her head back in surprise. "Yes, they have."

"I haven't noticed anything." _Except your teats and your lips and your hips and . . ._

"Sandor, that's because it's you that's changed."

Sandor turned away and picked up the flagon, hoping to buy himself a moment.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about!" Sansa went on, her voice growing shrill. She dropped back to a lower volume. "You never used to drink so much!"

Sandor put the flagon down without taking a sip. "You came here to lecture me about drinking? Maybe I should remind you that _ladies_ don't scurry through the halls in their night clothes . . ."

Sansa flushed and tightened her grip on the neck of her cloak. She looked down and guilt oozed over Sandor. He was half afraid she would cry again and half afraid she'd leave. Now that she was here, he wanted her to stay. After a moment's struggle, Sansa seemed to get herself in hand. Frowning, she looked up at him. "Don't you feel it, too? How things are different?" She seemed to be willing him to understand whatever it was she wasn't articulating.

Sandor tossed out a hand palms up and shrugged. "Different how?" Maybe if he kept her talking, she wouldn't cry. 

Sansa looked up into his face. "Ever since you came home . . . it's like . . ." She looked down and to the side as though the words she wanted could be found on the floor. She took a breath. "You came back and it was like you didn't want to see me or talk to me."

"We talked."

Sansa shot him a look. "Yes, we did. And then we didn't. And then we did. And then you bit my head off about the song tonight. If I've done something to offend you, I wish you'd just say so because -"

"Sansa."

"Yes?"

"You haven't offended me. If that's what's keeping you up, put it out of your mind and go to bed."

Sansa was clearly not satisfied with that. "I'm glad to hear it but it's not just tonight. Things haven't been right between us -"

"There's nothing between us."

"You know what I mean."

Sandor opened his mouth but found he had nothing to say.

This seemed to frustrate Sansa even more. "I was worried about you while you were gone and then, with the awful news about Jory and the others, and how you didn't want to tell me what happened and now you're in your cups more often than not and . . . you've changed and I'm worried about you."

Her words flayed him. He said as calmly as he could, "Don't worry, little bird. I haven't changed."

Sansa grabbed onto that. "Then it's me. Something about me has -"

"It's not you."

"It must be."

"Sansa, you're -"

"If it's not you, then it has to be me." She pressed her lips together. "Just tell me what it is."

"It's what it's always been. You're still Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, Hand of the late king, descendants of the First Men . . ." Sandor trailed off with a shrug.

For a moment, Sansa was quiet. "That's what changed."

Sandor didn't know what she meant. "Nothing changed. That's what I'm telling you."

"I used to be Sansa to you."

"You still are."

"No, you just said I'm Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark -"

"That's true."

"That's my lineage."

"I know."

"That's how you're thinking of me now. As a highborn girl."

"I've always known that."

Sansa was looking at him as though some mental clouds were lifting. "You may have known it but now you seem to care about it."

Sandor shook his head in confusion.

Sansa went on, though she sounded like she was talking to herself more than to him. "You avoid me and argue with me. You bring me gifts and say you like my dress . . ." 

She met his eye with a look of surprise and Sandor felt exposed, like he'd been stripped of his armor mid-battle, and angry with himself for not catching the direction of her thoughts sooner so he could deny them vehemently. As it was, he could only stare back at her, waiting for her to react to the realization of his feelings.

After roughly an eternity, Sansa mumbled, "I've imposed on you too long." She turned to the door and opened it. She looked back at him and said, "Good night, Sandor," and slipped silently into the hall.

***

EARLIER THAT NIGHT

Sansa slammed her door shut and cuffed away the tears in her eyes. Then she dropped down onto a chair and cried some more, though she tried to be quiet about it. She thought maybe Sandor would come talk to her, seeing how upset she was, but when there was no knock on her door or approaching footsteps, she realized he wasn't coming and cried over that as well. 

Sansa didn't know what Sandor's problem was lately, but she felt ruffled by his mood. Her mood. His mood was upsetting her mood and she didn't know what to make of it. Sandor, whatever his reputation was with others, had nearly always been at least civil to her. He snapped at her now and again but Seven help the one who bothered her in his presence. She'd grown used to his protection and felt content to have him as her shadow. Lately, though, they couldn’t seem to exchange two words without some kind of dust-up. And she didn't like the drinking. He usually had small ale or wine like everyone else but, ever since he'd come back from the capital, he'd been in his cups with disturbing frequency. She worried about her friend. And how could he not like the singer? The man had a voice like warm honeyed butter. She didn't think Sandor disliked music - he'd always listened to her performances attentively enough - so why should he be so surly? They were lucky to have the entertainment. They were only beginning to recover from the shock of her father's hasty return home. Jory was dead. The king was dead. The seven kingdoms were unsettled, and handsome King Joffrey was doing all he could to keep his throne. Travel was increasingly unsafe so, again, she wondered why Sandor should so object to the novelty of not only a singer but a very skilled one. Since it made no sense to her, she assumed his ire must have another source.

Maybe it was her. She didn't usually take his arm (her mother's words about propriety forever ringing in her ears) but she'd been so swept up in the relief of the music that she wanted to share her happiness with him. To make him happy, too, because sometimes she felt like he needed her. He had companions, she supposed, but had not been connected to a woman in a very long time. Though she thought, with a frown, that she hadn't known what went on when he was away. The thought of him being with another woman rankled her, though she couldn't say why. She just felt certain he would settle for a woman who didn't deserve him and that he would suffer from his poor choice. He used to tease her for having silly ideas, crowning her with the nickname of Little Bird, but she thought she knew the sort of woman who would appeal to Sandor, not that there were any of _those_ around. She couldn't imagine him without someone boisterous, someone who could make him laugh and take his ribbing. She'd need to be a hard worker with a well of inner strength. Sansa didn't see Sandor's scars as a detriment. She'd been looking at them all her life and they were simply a part of him like some men had grey eyes or dark hair or a hooked nose.

_Sansa_, she thought to herself, _you should really mind your own business._ She didn't want to acknowledge that it stung a bit to think that she wouldn't appeal to him. People said she was beautiful, but she also sang and played the bells and the high harp, and she really, truly enjoyed sewing. After his invective about the song tonight, she didn't think Sandor really felt she had anything to offer. Well, she had her name and her looks but he didn't seem to care about those. Her mother told her that she was highly desirable, but didn't all mothers say that of their daughters? What about her was so unacceptable to him? What had she done to offend him?

"I enjoy you in that dress," he'd said. What had he meant by that? She was no stranger to his pointed jokes, but she'd never been the butt of one. Maybe he actually liked her dress. Well then why couldn't he have just said so without being mean about it? 

There was a knock on her door. Sansa hastily blotted the rest of her tears and walked to the door, certain Sandor would be on the other side of it, ready to apologize. Her disappointment was keen when it was just her maid. 

"Are you ready for bed?" Lucy asked.

"Yes, quite. I'm very tired."

After she was attended to, Sansa lay in bed awake for a long time wondering what had happened to make Sandor so different.

The more she thought about it, though, she realized he'd always been different. Most of the men in her father's direct employ had families, some going back generations just as hers did. Her mother was from the Riverlands but she had been the Lady of Winterfell for so long that she didn't seem like an outsider. Sandor had lived here longer than he had not, but he'd somehow retained a sense of 'otherness' about him. Her mother had said more than once that he could be a loud-mouthed jerk, especially when he was in his cups, but Sandor was also surprisingly quiet when it came to himself.

Sansa frowned. She'd known him forever and yet, she realized, she didn't really know him at all. He was familiar, yet foreign.

After some more tossing and turning, Sansa got up. She threw on her cloak and made her way to Sandor's room. She knew where it was, though she couldn't say how she knew. The same way she knew where everything at Winterfell was. The knowledge was just part of her. Funny, she'd never been inside his room before. Chances were good she wouldn't be inside it tonight, either, but she'd made up her mind that they needed to fix whatever had broken between them and the sooner, the better.

The keep was quiet, and her bare feet were silent, and she made it all the way there without encountering anyone who might question her actions. 

She stared at the door for a moment, wondering if this was such a good idea after all. She assumed Sandor would be cranky if she woke him up. She knew he wasn't working tonight but that didn't mean he wasn't out drinking or gambling or, ick, engaging in some other unworthy activities. Sansa gathered her courage. It was this or go back to bed and spend the rest of the night tormented by her thoughts.

As she raised her hand to knock, the door opened, and Sandor stood there looking as surprised as she felt. Before she lost her nerve, Sansa ducked into the room and shut the door. 

"I'm glad you're still up. I didn't want to wake you." She hoped being polite would encourage him to do the same.

"I'm awake."

Her heart fluttered in her chest. She spat out, "We need to talk. I couldn't sleep."

"It's the middle of the night."

He was right, of course. Sansa felt regret lapping at her. "I know. And I know my being here isn't proper, but we need to talk."

"What about?"

_Isn't it obvious?!_ "About . . . " She gestured abstractedly with her hands. "About you! I mean, us. We can't seem to get along lately. Doesn't that bother you? Thing have been so_ weird_ since you came home!"

"No, they haven't."

Sansa pulled her head back in surprise. How could he deny it? Was he in his cups again? "Yes, they have."

"I haven't noticed anything."

"Sandor, that's because it's you that's changed."

Sandor turned away and picked up the flagon, confirming Sansa's fear. "That's exactly what I'm talking about!" she cried. Realizing her voice was carrying, she forced herself to take a more moderate tone, though she was still overstimulated. "You never used to drink so much!"

Sandor put the flagon down without taking a sip. "You came here to lecture me about drinking? Maybe I should remind you that _ladies_ don't scurry through the halls in their night clothes . . ."

Sansa flushed and tightened her grip on the neck of her cloak. She looked down and inhaled slowly. This conversation needed to happen. More bickering wasn't going to resolve anything. Frowning, she looked back up at him. "Don't you feel it, too? How things are different?" How could she put it more plainly than that?

Sandor tossed out a hand palms up and shrugged. "Different how?"

Sansa looked up into his face. "Ever since you came home . . . it's like . . ." She looked down and to the side, trying to find the words that would make him understand. Evidence wasn't enough. She wanted him to understand the effect his behavior was having on her. She took a breath. "You came back and it was like you didn't want to see me or talk to me."

"We talked."

Sansa shot him a look. He was being obtuse on purpose. "Yes, we did. And then we didn't. And then we did. And then you bit my head off about the song tonight. If I've done something to offend you, I wish you'd just say so because -"

"Sansa."

"Yes?"

"You haven't offended me. If that's what's keeping you up, put it out of your mind and go to bed."

Sansa was not going to allow him to dismiss her. "I'm glad to hear it but it's not just tonight. Things haven't been right between us -"

"There's nothing between us."

"You know what I mean."

Sandor didn't respond so Sansa plowed on ahead. "I was worried about you while you were gone and then, with the awful news about Jory and the others, and how you didn't want to tell me what happened and now you're in your cups more than not and . . . you've changed and I'm worried about you."

"Don't worry, little bird. I haven't changed."

Sansa had known it all along. "Then it's me. Something about me has -"

"It's not you."

"It must be."

"Sansa, you're -"

"If it's not you, then it has to be me." She pressed her lips together. "Just tell me what it is."

"It's what it's always been. You're still Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, Hand of the late king, descendants of the First Men," Sandor said in a tired voice.

It was like a candle suddenly ignited in the darkness. Here was the cause of the distance between them. "That's what changed."

"Nothing changed. That's what I'm telling you."

"I used to be Sansa to you."

"You still are."

"No, you just said I'm Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark –“

"That's true."

"That's my lineage."

"I know."

"That's how you're thinking of me now. As a highborn girl."

"I've always known that -"

Sansa's mind was racing. How had this not occurred to her before? "You may have known it but now you seem to care about it."

Sandor shook his head.

Sansa went on, though, in her mind, she was remembering an incident from her childhood. There had been a boy, the son of some nobleman or other, she couldn't remember now, who had teased her and chased after her and upset her so much that she'd gone to her septa, her mother being busy with her duties as hostess. Septa Mordane had agreed that the boy's behavior was inappropriate but added that he probably behaved that way because he liked Sansa and wanted her attention. It had made no sense to Sansa at the time (why would you tease someone you like??) but she was older and wiser now and had seen similar scenarios play out between other boys and girls. "You avoid me and argue with me. You bring me gifts and say you like my dress . . ." 

She looked at Sandor with new, wide eyes. He stared back.

Overwhelmed by what she now realized must be true, Sansa mumbled, "I've imposed on you too long." She turned to the door and opened it. She looked back at him and said, "Good night, Sandor," and slipped silently into the hall.

***

Sansa dashed back to her room, flung her cloak at a chair, and dove under her covers. Despite being quite alone, she felt the need to sort out her feelings beneath a mountain of down._ Sandor likes me?!_ It didn't seem possible, but all the pieces appeared to fit._ Maybe you're just thinking too well of yourself._ But Sansa felt deep down that she was right. Her lineage had never impressed him. That he was reciting it to her now gave the lie to his thoughts. Sansa realized she was smiling. Her heart was in bloom. Someone liked her! Sure, there were men who wanted to marry their sons to her one day, but this was different. There was nothing for Sandor to gain by liking her, and much to lose, but he did anyway. Sansa's mind flashed over their every encounter since he'd come home. When seen through a light of infatuation, she could sympathize with his moods. She giggled to herself over how they'd misunderstood each other. Happiness bubbled up inside her. She was liked! For herself! She fell asleep feeling lighter than she had in forever.

Morning, though, brought with it a different sensation._ Do I like _him_?_ She'd never thought about him that way before. She'd always _liked_ him but did her feelings run deeper than that? They shouldn’t, but_ could_ they?

When Lucy came in to help her dress, Sansa waved her away and said absently that she'd break her fast in her room. As Lucy left to get her a tray of food, Sansa curled on to her side and clutched her blanket under her chin. She'd always appreciated Sandor's protection. If he treated anyone at all delicately, it was her. Sansa knew he could be gentle; he certainly doted on his horse enough, even if he thought she didn't notice. His looks were what they were. The one side of his face was handsome. Some people found his scars frightening but they didn't faze her one way or another. He wasn't lacking for muscle, that was for sure. He was all male yet had somehow been attuned to her moods, even when she'd been a child. Sandor had many fine qualities, when she thought about it. It made her feel a little sad that she'd never fully appreciated them before. It also struck her that they'd shared an intimate kind of relationship of which she'd been completely unaware. Though she didn't know what his dealings with other women had been, Sansa felt reasonably confident that his softer side had been reserved for her alone. She hoped so, anyway.

She blushed as she wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Joffrey had nearly kissed her once. She’d regretted the interruption for a long time afterward but kissing Sandor, she knew, would be something entirely different. She suspected he knew how. It was a fascinating dichotomy. Sansa knew Sandor to be capable of rigid control, but she’d seen it give way in an instant, usually in a gush of temper. She knew she’d be perfectly safe with him – he’d never force himself on her – but the idea of inspiring a loss of control in him was too delicious not to dwell on.

A memory suddenly came to her. Sansa recalled how her mother had told her once about kissing games she and her sister had played with their father’s ward, Petyr Baelish. Sansa’s eyes narrowed. Her mother had shrewdly not mentioned those in years. Sansa knew well how ladies were supposed to behave, and she held her mother as her model of feminine perfection, but knowing Lady Stark had had a little fun in her youth made Sansa’s inappropriate thoughts a little less troublesome to bear.

As though Sansa’s thoughts had summoned her to action, at midmorning Lucy came to inform her that Lady Stark was worried Sansa was ill and, so, Sansa got out of bed and allowed herself to be washed and dressed. Her thoughts on the advisability of having a romantic entanglement with Sandor Clegane were still unsettled but she'd reached one conclusion: she was willing to give it a try.


	6. Chapter 6

Sandor skipped breakfast. He'd sooner have his stomach digest itself than face Sansa after last night's humiliation. He cursed his slow-wittedness in deflecting her and stewed in his dark mood. He was well aware he'd intended to make his interest known but he'd wanted it to be on his terms, not when he was cornered by her in her bare feet. He kicked himself for not taking charge of the opportunity - again - but, damn her, she'd caught him off guard - again - and he'd stood there quaking like a squire.

By late morning he was starving and, figuring he'd avoided Sansa successfully, went in search of food. He rounded a corner and almost collided with her._ For fuck's sake._

"Good morning, Sandor," she said with a smile.

"Lady Sansa," he replied out of habit.

He made to continue walking but she was looking at him as though waiting for something. 

"Is there something you need?" he asked apprehensively.

"No." 

Still with the looking. "Did you eat?"

"Yes."

Sandor wasn't used to so few words from her. "I haven't."

"I won't keep you then."

"Lady Sansa," he said again with a nod and then walked into the great hall. He took fewer than five steps and turned around. He should have asked her to join him.

But she was gone.

***

While he ate, he decided enough was enough. He'd find her and ask her to spend some time with him. She hadn't gone running just now so, if she_ did_ realize he liked her, she wasn't avoiding him because of it.

He was just about to get up when Sansa reappeared next to him.

"You must have been hungry," she observed with a smile.

Sandor had no idea how long he'd been sitting there. The hall was nearly deserted, given the off hour at which he'd eaten. "I suppose I was," was all he could think to say in reply.

Sansa smiled at him again. Her nearly flawless features quickened his pulse. One of her eyebrows arched just a little higher than the other. He'd never noticed before, but this tiny asymmetry appealed to him.

"Let's go for a walk," she said, and got up.

He followed her out, pleased with this turn of events. "Where to?" He offered her his arm and was gratified beyond measure when she took it.

"Somewhere private."

Sandor stopped. "Is there more you want to talk about?" If there was, he'd sooner not waste the shoe leather just to hear another recitation of his shortcomings. 

"You've always been honest with me, haven't you?"

"Aye," Sandor responded cautiously.

"I've always appreciated that about you."

It sounded like there was a caveat coming so Sandor didn't say anything. Instead, he let her lead him outside toward the godswood. Not too far in, there was a bench that Lord Stark made use of whenever he came to pray to his trees or however it worked. All these years and Sandor had never talked to his lord about it.

Sansa guided them to the bench and fluffed out her skirts, sitting regally and with a grace that made Sandor want to ravage her. To avoid having her read his thoughts as she'd seemed to the night before, he sat beside her and looked out at one of the spring-fed pools. Wisps of steam rose from it and disappeared among the leaves.

Sansa seemed to be gathering her thoughts. Sandor's mind raced. He had her alone. He should say something to preempt anything that wasn't going to result in her knowing that he wanted to get to know her better.

  
"Sandor . . ."

"Lady Sansa -"

"Just Sansa is fine."

"Sansa," he said slowly while looking her in the eye. The nearness of her was dazzling. To his delight, she blushed. He spoke before he was afraid to. "Whatever you were thinking last night . . . you were right."

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened. She held his gaze and Sandor was sure she could feel the air crackling between them just like he could. 

"I was?"

Sandor nodded.

She continued to meet his eye. He leaned toward her. She registered the motion and didn't lean away so he moved in closer. He'd known she had blue eyes but never before had he appreciated how perfect the shade was. The shape of her nose, the curve of her cheekbones, the lush plumpness of her bottom lip. He breathed in the sweet smell of her. He'd never been this near to her face before. She was even better up close. He shut his eyes and made to close the last few inches of distance between them, his blood thrumming through his veins. 

"Not here," she said quietly, her breath light on his lips.

He opened his eyes. "Here, then," he said and leaned forward again, ready to kiss her on the cheek and then her ear.

Sansa gave a nervous giggle. "Not_ here_," she said, giving a meaningful look at the trees. "It's holy."

Sandor stifled a groan. "Then why did we come here?"

She blinked in surprise. "Oh! Sandor, surely you don't think I brought you here to . . ."

Gods damn it, she was so fucking cute. "I do think it, little bird. I think you lured me out here to have your way with me. I've done all I could but only a fool would pass you up."

Sansa's eyes flew open in horror but then she realized he was teasing her. All Sandor could think was that she hadn't run screaming from him. She'd known he was going to kiss her, and she hadn't moved. He grinned.

"The old gods are watching."

"Let 'em," he said and leaned in again.

"Sandor!" she scolded but with a laugh. 

Sandor's mood was soaring. He loved teasing her.

"My chambers then." Blood was surging to his groin. He thanked the gods for cloaks.

"Not yet."

"When?"

"Maybe we should . . . get used to the idea."

"I'm used to it. I've thought of little else."

"Have you? You took me by surprise."

"I thought you liked surprises."

"I do."

"Then what's the problem?"

"There isn't one."

"My chambers then."

Sansa smiled but it wasn't a smile he liked. It was the one she used to placate children. "Let's take a walk."

Sandor groaned. "This _was_ the walk."

Sansa stood and faced him; her hands clasped in front of her. "I'd like your arm, please."

Sandor's disappointment nearly crushed him. He'd been so close. He should have just leaned in and kissed her. But duty was duty and the lady had made a request, so he stood and offered her his arm.

They ambled out of the godswood, Sansa making polite conversation and Sandor not attending to any of it. As he tried to keep his mood in check, he was suddenly struck by a much better thought. All he had to do was get her to a place where she would allow him to kiss her and it was as good as done. Suddenly, he was feeling positively ebullient. He stole a look at her and imagined running his hands over her curves.He relaxed a bit and let her lead him.

"Where are we going, little bird?" he asked when no destination became apparent.

"We're just walking. And talking. And enjoying each other's company." She smiled up at him, the sun catching the highlights in her hair.

Sandor let out a breath. He wasn't usually satisfied with half of anything but apparently he would have to be satisfied with this. She was keeping a steady pace and didn't seem inclined to find another bench.

"What were you going to tell me?"

"Hmm?"

"You asked if I've always been honest with you. You said you appreciated it. What were you getting at?"

"Oh." She looked away and seemed to gather her words. When she looked back up at him, she was more serious. "I trust you, Sandor. I believe you have always tried to do right by me."

Was she reproaching his attempted kiss? He didn't want to think about all the ways he'd blundered in trying to get to this point, but she could be referring to those, too. All he could think to say was, "Aye, I have."

"If I'm right in what I was thinking . . . would you still do that? Behave in a way I could trust?"

It pained him that she could think otherwise. He looked down at her. She was still young and naïve, and he wanted to reassure her. "Come here."

He walked them quickly behind a storage shed where they could have a little privacy. He turned toward her and put his hands on her waist. It was uncomfortable for them both, but he didn't want it to be. He stood still, like he would with a skittish horse, and waited until they both settled. When they stopped being so aware of Sandor's hands, he said quietly, "If I don't, you take this sword from my hip and run me through."

She smiled. "Be serious."

He moved a little closer but not so close that he couldn't bend down to kiss her, which he fully intended to do. "I am serious, little bird. Haven't I always looked after you? If it pleases you, I’ll even pretend singers who sound like scalded cats have voices to rival the Seven."

Sansa laughed and wrapped her arms around his waist and snuggled against his chest. 

Sandor was mildly disappointed that he didn't get to kiss her, but her touch flooded him with warmth. He'd not had a true hug since his sister was alive. He was nearly overwhelmed by it. He hugged Sansa back and heard the sounds of someone approaching. He ran his hands down her arms and took her hands. He gave them a squeeze and asked, "Where to?"

When she said, “Anywhere,” his knees all but gave way.

*** 

They ambled along chitchatting. Since they knew nearly everyone they passed, their conversation was constantly interrupted. Tiring of that, Sandor eventually steered them outside the keep. Sansa must have noticed because her conversation began to touch on more private matters. "How is it you've lived here so long and yet I feel I know nothing about you?"

"There's not much to know," he said easily.

"Ser Gregor still lives in the westerlands . . ."

"He does."

"You've never wanted to visit?"

Sandor gave a cold chuckle. "No."

"But why?"

"You know my brother's reputation. Would you go visit him?"

"But you're his brother."

"I am."

Sansa didn't understand and Sandor didn't care to explain. 

"But you grew up together, didn't you?"

"That was all a long time ago, little bird. I left home, joined Robert's Rebellion, he asked your father to train me, and here we are."

"Yes, here we are," Sansa smiled.

"The north suits me."

"I'm glad you feel that way."

"What else are you glad about?"

"I'm glad you're talking to me."

"I've always talked to you."

"It's different now."

"Better?"

"I like it. Sometimes you seem so angry. Or sad. Or both. I'm not always sure."

"Do I seem that way now?"

Sansa looked up at him. "No, right now you seem . . . content."

Sandor laughed. "Close enough."

Sansa gave him a confused look. 

He felt like a fool but he had to say it. "We should do this some more. You and me. Away from the castle and Jeyne and your septa and all of them."

She favored him with a smile. "I'd like that."

He blew out a breath. "Lord and Lady Stark wouldn't." He didn't want to address it but he had to. If Sansa was going to be with him, she needed to know what that really meant - that she would have to defend her choice to her parents.

"There's nothing wrong with us spending time together."

"It's not_ spending time_ that they'd object to."

Sansa pulled in the corners of her mouth. 

"I want more. Of you. Sansa." Gods help him, it was out there now. Stuttered, but out there.

Sansa stopped walking and looked at the ground for a moment while Sandor's heart threatened to clog his throat and suffocate him.

"I want . . . to try."

Sandor's pulse was pounding in his ears so loudly he wasn't sure he heard her correctly. "Try?"

A flush was creeping down Sansa's neck and chest. "I . . . I would like to know you better. But it would be best if we were discreet."

"Discreet. Aye. We can be discreet." Sandor felt drunk. She'd actually said she wanted to know him better.

Sansa looked up at him shyly and with so much trust that it hit him like a fist. Even as she constrained him, it was so much more than he'd hoped for.

"It's just that . . . people would talk. Highborn girls . . ."

"I know, Sansa."

"I'm sorry. I know you understand."

"It's not your birthright I like."

She gave a small smile. It stoked the fire within Sandor even higher.

Even though they were alone, he was practically whispering when he said, "Why don't you come to my chambers tomorrow?"

She hesitated.

"It's the least holy place I know . . . " he said, hoping she'd laugh. "And there's no chance we'll run across Lord or Lady Stark. Discreet as silent sisters."

"That wouldn't be proper."

"Bit late for that."

"To talk?"

"We could drink and shoot dice, if you'd rather."

"I've no head for numbers, remember?"

"So you'll lose. That's no problem for me as long as you bet high."

"You're very funny," she said dryly. "I'd never noticed."

He took her hand. "Sansa," he said, "I'll be in my chambers tomorrow after midday. If you want us to get to know each other and you want to be discreet, it's the best place."

“And if I don’t come?"

“Then I’ll wait until you do.”

***  
  


It took hours and hours for Sandor's heart rate to return to normal. Every time he thought of the day he'd just had, his blood would surge, his breathing would grow shallow, and he'd wonder again how it had all come about. She hadn't exactly agreed to come to his chambers, but she hadn't said no. She'd said she wanted to know him better, know him better, know him better, know him better. The sweet sound of her words echoed in his ears.  
  


Sandor ruminated over what was to come. They would be all alone and he'd kiss her. She'd like it and kiss him back and, at last, he'd become familiar with her in all the ways he wanted to.

The problem was, he had no idea how to make her like it. The kitchen maid had directed him, knowing exactly how she wanted to receive her pleasure. As for Sandor, he'd been halfway there as soon as they'd gotten alone. But that wasn't his problem. His problem would be pacing himself. He assumed Sansa didn't have much experience. He hoped not anyway because his stomach iced over when he thought of her with someone else. He decided that the best approach was the fast one. No more awkward dithering. She'd had ample opportunity to decline his advances and she hadn't, aside from that modesty before the old gods that Sandor would have roundly scorned had it been anyone but Sansa claiming they were watching. She seemed sure. Kind of. He hoped she was because, after all this, if she decided against him, he wasn't sure he could withstand the disappointment.

Sandor had pulled the night shift and a horde of Dothraki riders could have come thundering over the hills and he wouldn't have even noticed. He seemed, at long last, in spite of himself and against all probability, on the verge of being with Sansa. His nerves were jangled, like he was going to compete in a tourney on the morrow. Eventually, the sky lightened and he saw Sansa in the great hall. She blushed and looked away when his staring finally paid off and she met his gaze. He wrote that off as her being nervous, too, though he wished she wasn't so damn demure. Maybe it wasn't nerves; maybe it was compassion for his impending disappointment. After shoveling in some food, Sandor hustled to his room, bathed quickly, and fell into bed for a few hours of sleep. 

***

Sansa didn’t know if she wanted to go to Sandor's room or not. She had told herself she wanted to see where things went with Sandor, but she hadn’t expected them to lead to his bed chambers. She was certain he’d been going to kiss her in the godswood and the reality of it had alarmed her. She wanted to get to know him, to know he understood the gravity of her decision. She feared being treated like a conquest or making a fool of herself or embarrassing her family, or even of getting Sandor in trouble. He seemed free of those worries and that made her worry even more. When they had just been walking along, chatting, she’d felt relaxed and happy. Memories of him hugging her made her feel warm and squishy inside. That had been her favorite part of the day. He had made her feel safe and cared for, and not just because she was Sansa Stark.

Currently, she was feeling less secure. She had no concerns that he would force himself on her. This was Sandor, after all. It wasn't as though she was slinking off to the winter town with a man of ill repute. Still, she was nervous. Logically, she saw the wisdom of Sandor's argument. His chambers were surely the most private place they could meet, though it was not quite enough to overcome the years of lecturing from her mother and her septa. A meeting like this was inherently improper and Sansa could not be entirely at ease with what she was doing, despite being intrigued by Sandor and the feelings he'd somehow aroused in her. She reasoned that her choosing to be with anyone would be new and uncertain, though she knew, deep down, that her lord father and lady mother would not be overjoyed with her choice and, for now, discretion would probably be best. Such thoughts didn't stop her heart from thumping loudly as she knocked on his door. 

Sandor opened the door but seemed more interested in surveying the hallway than looking at her. 

_Now what?_ Sansa thought as she stepped into his room.

She hadn't looked around the last time she was here but now she took it in. The room was spare. No decorations. No garlands of dried flowers on his mirror like she had in her room. No mirror, for that matter. No fluffy white pelt on his bed. No pillows and candles and sachets of herbs. No special mixture of lemon-yellow paint for his walls, one of which was just exposed stone. _Does he like it like this?_ she wondered. _Where is the comfort?_ It was clean and neat, that didn't surprise her, but it lacked personality. Sansa narrowed her eyes. "Where are all your things?" she asked, wondering what the lack of personal touch in the room's decor should tell her about him.

Sandor didn't even bother to look around. He simply stepped forward and put his hands on her waist. She looked up at him and suddenly felt crowded. He looked determined and that intimidated her.

“You wanted to come.”

Sansa nodded. Now didn’t seem the time to voice all her concerns. She didn't have the breath anyway. She wanted to buy herself a moment but her mind was slip-sliding all over the place and couldn't land on the words.

Before she could delay him, he bent down to kiss her and bumped her nose with his. She tried to turn her head, but he turned his in the same direction. They both over-corrected and then Sandor took her face in his large, rough hands and, holding her gaze, slowly bent down to kiss her. She knew it was unkind but she couldn't stop her eyes from darting to his scars. The roughness of them against her lips caused her to stiffen for just a moment before she registered the soft half of his mouth that sent a shiver of pleasure through her. It was too late, though. He sensed her hesitation and immediately let her go and stepped away, something close to outrage on his features.

"You didn't like it," he accused.

"No, I -"

"Seven hells, why'd you come here? You must have known this is what would happen." His anger seemed to be mounting by the moment.

"I just wasn't -"

"You weren't what?"

She winced. He was disgusted with her.

"You felt my scars, is that it?"

"No. I mean, I did but, it wasn't that!"

He turned away. "Liar."

Sansa's jaw swung open. "I've never been kissed before. I wasn't ready!"

He cast a disparaging look at her over his shoulder. "Right. And I'm Jaime Lannister."

"I'm not lying."

He swatted the air in a dismissive gesture. "Whatever you say."

"What is wrong with you? I've never lied to you, or anyone else!"

He rounded on her. "You expect me to believe no one's ever kissed you? Not Cley Cerwyn who's always around, with his smooth lips, or that singer with his silver tongue?"

Sansa drew back in horror. How could he say such things to her? Where was the Sandor who’d held her and said he'd look after her? She certainly felt like running him through with his sword now. "Yes, I expect you to believe it because it's true!"

"What about," he made his voice mocking, "dreamy King Joffrey? I bet a broach isn't all he gave you."

"Shut your mouth!"

"It _was_ shut until you pulled away."

"What is the matter with you lately?!" Sansa shrieked, her face hot, tears rolling over her cheeks.

Sandor took a step back, crossed his arms over his chest, and straightened to his full height. 

"Why did you say that?!" she insisted. "Why do you have to ruin _every_thing?!"

"Maybe you're the one who ruined it. Ever think of that? I'd think you'd be used to my face after all this time." The corner of his mouth twitched.

She glared at him. _Coming here was a mistake. _She was irritated with herself for ignoring her instincts and flouting the decorum that had always served her so well.

"No courtesies for that, girl?"

With all the calm she could muster, Sansa said, "I thought we were going to get to know each other."

"I thought you wanted to kiss me."

That was too much. Sansa quickly wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands and shot him a murderous look. "Not anymore!"

***

MOMENTS BEFORE

Sandor lay on his bed, so preoccupied with whether or not Sansa would come that he didn't hear her footsteps in the hall. His heart nearly stopped when he heard her knock and he crossed the room in a bound, lest she be caught standing outside his door. To his relief, no one was gawking at her in the hall because no one was there but her.

In accordance with his plan, he stepped forward and put his hands on her waist. She looked up at him and his heart flipped over. “You wanted to come.”

Sansa nodded and it was all the confirmation he needed. He bent down to kiss her and, after some frustratingly squire-level maneuvering, Sandor took her face in his hands, held her gaze, and slowly bent down to kiss her. He'd just registered her softness when he felt Sansa purse her lips in a flinch. He instinctively knew why, and it crushed him.

"You didn't like it," he said, each word flaying his soul.

"No, I -"

"Seven hells, why'd you come here? You must have known this is what would happen." She could not have dashed his hopes at a worse moment. He wished he could take his sword to something.

"I just wasn't -"

"You weren't what?"

She made a face.

"You felt my scars, is that it?"

"No. I mean, I did but, it wasn't that!"

He turned away. She could chirp whatever she wanted but he knew what he knew. "Liar."

"I've never been kissed before. I wasn't ready!"

He cast a disparaging look at her over his shoulder. The odds were squarely against that. At least one of the young men who were part of the parade through Winterfell must have taken a shot. "Right. And I'm Jaime Lannister."

"I'm not lying."

If that were true, he'd just ruined this for her. But he still didn't believe her. If she truly objected to his scars, why had she let things get this far? That’s what really bothered him. He’d never thought she was a tease. He swatted the air in a dismissive gesture. "Whatever you say."

"What is wrong with you? I've never lied to you, or anyone else!"

Sandor rounded on her. He knew he should shut up already, but his insecurities gushed obscenely out of his mouth. "You expect me to believe no one's ever kissed you? Not Cley Cerwyn who's always around, with his smooth lips, or that singer with his silver tongue?"

Sansa drew back in affront. Her posture reminded Sandor of Lady Catelyn, as did her righteous expression. "Yes, I expect you to believe it because it's true!"

"What about," he made his voice mocking, "dreamy King Joffrey? I bet a broach isn't all he gave you."

"Shut your mouth!"

"It _was_ shut until you pulled away." _Though it wouldn't have been for long._

"What is the matter with you lately?!" Sansa shrieked, her face a brilliant red, tears rolling over her cheeks.

He wished she would leave, even if it was running away in misery, but she stubbornly stood there, seeming to demand an answer from him. There was no way to tell her that _she_ was the matter with him, not when a simple kiss threw her into fits of revulsion. It was time to go on the offensive. He took a step back, crossed his arms over his chest, and straightened to his full height. She wasn't cowed in the least. 

"Why did you say that?!" she insisted. "Why do you have to ruin _every_thing?!"

"Maybe you're the one who ruined it. Ever think of that? I'd think you'd be used to my face after all this time." The corner of his mouth twitched. He tried to make it stop but couldn't. A chronic frustration.

She held his gaze and looked more hostile than he'd ever seen her.

"No courtesies for that, girl?"

"I thought we were going to get to know each other."

"I thought you wanted to kiss me." His admission sounded cocky rather than conciliatory and he could tell right away that it had gone over badly. She looked insulted, like he'd made it sound like he was doing her a favor.

Sansa quickly wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands and shot him a murderous look. "Not anymore!"

Sandor was still standing where she left him long after she was gone. Not anymore? Had that meant she'd actually wanted to? Sandor let out a growl of frustration, grabbed the flagon from his table, and hurled it against the wall. He eyed the jagged shards covering his floor with satisfaction and headed for the door.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I've made Sandor and Sansa a little closer in age. Language will not be entirely canon-compliant.


End file.
